


Slumber in the Depths

by SeaboundMaenad



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Conditioning, F/M, Intimacy, Mind Control, Multiple Partners, Murder, Patricide, Self-Mutilation, Slow Burn, Slowly introducing more canon elements as it goes, This is Gotham After All, Torture, Torture as the Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship (or Something More), Unhealthy Relationships, Uxoricide, Warning for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-07-29 19:26:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16270787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaboundMaenad/pseuds/SeaboundMaenad
Summary: "Gotham. Home. Crowded, dark, and ripe with secrets, with skylines that sang a siren’s call. Damp and grey even in the middle of summer, its clubs and dives like holes, so densely scattered they bared its skeleton. Through it all, loud and careless, feasted its crawling masses."Ten years after a blood-soaked night, Sam Baxter finally returns to Gotham to meet a benefactor; but in her mind, she's carrying something unwanted, a plan that isn't her own... and the will to make her first move on the chess board. Under the growing shadow of both the city's scourges and protectors, those who don't want to stay a pawn have to keep evolving, to let the city's darkness change them... and Sam is sick and tired of being someone else's tool.[Eventual OC/Zsasz; will follow the events of the series as it progresses.]





	1. Breakfast

_Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. Sam could almost forget about her conditioning if she tried, losing herself in the steady flow of _cars, street, sky_. The grey stain of a skyline emerged before her. Idle rainclouds split by a faraway bridge. A glimmer of filthy water. An itch between her shoulder blades briefly disturbed her torpor, and she fiddled with the dress, tried to scratch the sensation away. An old habit. _No use, now_. No way to stem the crawling, not with her fingernails cut down and blunted. A lone voice in the back of her mind lamented the situation, muddled, but she quieted it down, and it slipped back into an uneasy sleep.

It was nearly time to be engulfed back into the city. She imagined it would feel akin to falling into a dark body of water, a point of no return, from which she’d have to fight to stay afloat. Her tension lasted right until the moment the car sped up past the line she had chosen to delimit its borders. Then, Sam became euphoric.

Gotham. _Home_. Crowded, dark, and ripe with secrets, with skylines that sang a siren’s call. Damp and grey even in the middle of summer, its clubs and dives like holes, so densely scattered they bared its skeleton. Through it all, loud and careless, feasted its crawling masses. _How long has it been?_ She’d been in and out, but she preferred to mark the beginning of her absence to only a little over ten years before. The day her parents died. The day she became a murderer.

During the trials, her nightmare had been summarized concisely with just a few scattered letters: self-defence. In a flurry of loud headlines, the news had spoken about a murder born of jealousy, about an affair sparking an argument and leading to an attempted double murder. Not attempted – half-successful. _Tragedy strikes at night in Eastern Uptown mansion. Blood runs on Charity Lane, woman strangled, man stabbed in the neck. Teenage girl only survivor of Eastern Uptown slaughter. Man kills wife, appears to have been killed by own daughter in self-defence. Charity Lane homicides, suspected mob ties._ _An affair may have sparked the murderous violence._ Those headlines had never quite captured the true horror of experiencing that night. Her mind was bathed in a memory of blue and red lights washing over her. Tides over tides of hurried voices in the background. Unfeeling weight on her chest, fire in her stomach…

She was interrupted in her train of thoughts by the familiar turn taken by the driver, and stiffened to attention. Her father had driven down that part of the city a number of times in the past; she recognized the pretty mansions, the stern sense of safety. Dornan Blasco, head of one of the local crime families, a decade before. He’d had reason to be there, before she’d had to kill him. She now had reason to be there, as well. A mission. A vague interference buzzed in the background of her thoughts. _It’s nothing, just the bumps in the road_. _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes. The plan…_ No use thinking about it. It’d all go smoothly, or not at all.

She was there to meet Carmine Falcone again, all dolled up like a ray of sunshine, like a daughter to be proud of. She had no doubts part of that getup was a shameless attempt at tugging at the Don’s heartstrings, memories of the South all wrapped up in modesty and youthfulness. The citrus and oranges print on her white dress, recalled in her jewellery, cheap but tasteful. The subdued makeup, the low heels, the bun her curly hair had been forced into. Shortened, blunted down nails painted white. After that horrible night, so long before, Don Falcone had taken personal interest in her sad circumstances: he’d made sure she’d get a proper defence, a proper treatment away from Gotham, a life in the system. She’d seen him a few times, through the years, as he checked on her progress: too few to be a daughter figure, in his eyes, but now the plan demanded for her to become one. She’d get there, one way or another.

On instinct, she tried to dig her fingernails deep into her palm, but the conditioning caused the useless pressure to weaken against her flesh. _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. Declawed, she felt the attempt at rebellion slip away with a kind of woollen relief.

The car went through the mansion gates, then deep into a courtyard. The jittery man by her side smiled at her, a laughable attempt at seeming encouraging; she gave him a blank stare in response, huddled within the realm between deep thought and true awareness. _Good, old, inconsequential Doctor Easton_. Thick glasses, decent blazer, a scholarly lack of spine. His sole purpose was to make the whole affair seem more official. For some reason, she pitied him, the way a shark might pity trapped fish.

They left the car, and were led through the hallway, then up a staircase. Into a parlour. Guards towered at the back of the room, clad in expensive suits and holstered weapons. The scent of tea came in a whiff of steam from the frail teapot on a coffee table. One figure stood out in the overwide space, steady, imposing; he welcomed them with old-fashioned courtesy, and invited them to sit.

Carmine Falcone. Head of the local mob, and well into his sixties, or perhaps a little older. The golden core to the great machine of crime steadily working underneath the city. For a while, Sam barely spoke, left pleasantries to Doctor Easton, who more than made up for her silence.

They’d done a number of sessions together, Easton and her. She’d never truly taken to him, but, with greetings out of the way, the Doctor acted like a true expert on her case, in a flurry of carefully picked and sanitized words. The gist of the matter was that she’d been finally deemed healthy enough to grant independence to, but he enamelled the hard fact with endless details, making it known that she’d been treated with the utmost care, the utmost interest for her case…

“I would like to hear what Miss Blasco has to say.”

Carmine Falcone’s tone, soft-spoken as it was, had brought quiet to the room, and a part of her drank in that display of power, wished it could be hers to replicate. It forced her to raise her eyes from her cup, straight into the man’s aquiline stare.

“It’s Baxter now”, she said, and both the conditioning and her self-preservation instinct caused her to stiffen in alarm, berating her for that correction. She’d changed her surname as soon as she’d been legally able to. Her mother’s maiden name. It had seemed like a sensible thing to do, at the time, but somehow that surname didn’t quite fit on her shoulders, too tight. _Too late for regrets._

“Miss Baxter, then”, Falcone said. Encouraging, like Doctor Easton hadn’t been. It was a relief to find he seemed to lack the volatility of emotions she’d learned to associate with men in his position. Every time she’d seen the Don, he’d had that graceful way of treating her, of keeping her distant but in focus. In sight.

_Under scrutiny_. Sam parted her lips, but no words left them. Her momentary hesitation caused the doctor to take the chance and offer to leave them alone for a while, so she’d be able to “open up properly”. The conditioning came into full force in the form of a quick nod and pleading eyes, to which Don Falcone agreed graciously.

_Steady, now. We’re all here together._ A voice in the back of her head soothed her. It meant she had to take her time, and try to remember... Remember something a part of her mind didn’t want her to think about. She fiddled with her spoon, and spoke with an inexplicable hint of embarrassment. “I cannot complain for my treatment. I’ve been well taken care of over the past ten years, as Doctor Easton mentioned, and as you’ve no doubts been able to appreciate during your visits. Even after outgrowing the system, the institution welcomed me until I was ready to leave…”

“That is very good to hear”, he said, but looked very much as though he was merely acting accommodating until she would finally spit out whatever was on her mind. “Does that mean you feel ready, now?”

The answer came as a flood of words, alien in her mouth, and yet well practiced. “I do have some residual urges, but yes, as ready as I’ll ever be, with continued therapy and medication, and the plan to reduce frequency and dosage as I grow comfortable in my new surroundings. Perhaps eliminating them completely, at some point”, she recited by heart. Her eyes stumbled on one man in particular who stood next to the empty fireplace, long legs, glove-clad hands, a fitted black jacket. Not a hair on him, it seemed, and pistols openly displayed in shoulder holsters. _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. As she moved her gaze to Carmine Falcone once again, her voice suddenly changed, from a well-practiced attempt at sounding like a sweet, healthy girl, to… something different. A little darker in tone, biting, clever, scrapping the script and improvising on the spot. A vague hint of her old accent, muddled by years spent amongst strays and orphans like her. “Then again, they’re after money. The doctors. Nothing overly shady, mind you, but as I grew healthier the issue of my wellbeing was beginning to arise. They’d have to choose between having me junked up to the point of uselessness, and risk your patronage, or sane enough to be released, with no justification as to why I should remain an inmate. That’s why I’m here, and all dolled up, I think. That line before, it was what I’ve been instructed to say. It’s not even lies, just scripted.”

That was not a breach of conditioning, and it was allowed. Encouraged, even, if it served her purpose: the doctors’ expectations had nothing to do with the plan. With her mind busy elsewhere, her body served itself, slowly gathered toasted bread onto a tiny platter. A butter knife. A thin curl of butter. White butter and sugar had the nostalgic shine of grade school breakfasts. She missed the process of it, the knife pressing and spreading it against the toast, but knives weren’t allowed within the reach of patients…

“That was even more candid than expected”, Falcone said, in a serious tone. _But look at him, the change of tune sure did spark some interest from him_ – his position told her so, joined hands, head bent towards her ever so slightly. “So what you’re telling me is, when Doctor Easton, Doctor Glover, and their entourage were brought to choose between bringing potential harm to you and losing my funds due to your apparent recovery, they’ve attempted to take the road of partial honesty, and partial loss. Out of self-preservation and convenience, perhaps, but honesty nonetheless.”

“Indeed. I wasn’t lying when I said I could not complain, either. I just disliked the method of this request”, she said, and buttered the bread, picturing every step in her mind, all the way to eating it. “I’ve improved. I’m not angry all the time anymore. Not angry at myself. There have been… incidents, but I haven’t caused trouble in quite a long time. I rarely ever get night terrors, sleep with my head on a pillow. I take care of myself without supervision”, she paused, gave in to the nagging need to take a breath. _Inhale, exhale_ – but this time, in order to drown the conditioning out, she rushed through her next words. “And I am grateful to you for making it possible, when I could’ve been considered responsible for the loss of a number of rather profitable assets. Of, I’m told, an efficient businessman. Of businesses sequestered before the investigation in my father’s holdings was stopped from going any deeper. That’s why I’m speaking so bluntly, and I hope I do not offend.”

She saw a hint of paternal, amused clemency in Don Falcone’s eyes, and a part of her jumped in triumph at the small victory. She allowed it to – and why should she not? _This is good for the plan_. He had to trust her a little more, now. She kept buttering her bread, not minding the fact that it was as well spread as it could get.

“You don’t offend at all”, he said. “In fact, it’s refreshing to be presented with such honesty. You must be aware of the fact that what has been paying for your health and well-being is part of what I’ve recovered from your family’s assets. Part of what was due to me. Tell me, what do you see me doing next, knowing what I know?”

She sat straighter, the knife still against the bread. That could be a trick question, and a whole second passed before she answered. “I imagine it may depend on whether you think I might still be an asset to you or not. In case I wasn’t suited for that, I suppose it would make sense for me to fend for myself. I’ve been an adult for a while now, and if there ever was a debt towards me or my family I’m not aware of, it is repaid by my current state of recovery. If I were a likely asset, though, well, then you might agree to what has been proposed by the doctors. Let me take care of the last few issues, and see me as an ongoing investment.”

He furrowed his brows. _Have I gone too far?_ “Very business-oriented. And not even considering the possibility I might grant you livelihood out of the kindness of my heart”, he observed. “Being an asset to me. Is that what you’d like?”

A gleam of light jumped at her from the knife. Sam remembered. She did not think beyond _now is the time_ , just kept herself distracted, distanced from what her body was doing. “Assuming I would, Don Falcone, there’d be one…” _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. She wanted to say obstacle. She desperately wanted to, but got stuck, gritted her teeth, decided to let it go and act, while she still could. “Do not be alarmed, please, and forgive the mess”, she said in one breath, and brought the blunt knife hard down the palm of her right hand, struggled, forced it to cut and draw a hiss from behind her teeth as it finally did. A few guns were pointed at her, now. It was a wonder they hadn’t shot, but it wasn’t time for relief yet.

“I have difficulties saying how, or whom, or why”, she stuttered, but focused on her pain, pressed the knife a little deeper. The older man had lifted a calming hand towards the armed guards, and now sat back after the momentary alarm. “I was sent with a plan, a mission. To gain trust… observe… A kind of pain brings me back, but so briefly I don’t know how lo-“, she was cut short by the dulling of her pain, and gave in to surprised, slightly hysterical laughter. _Close your eyes. Damage control, now, you fucking idiot, what are you doing? Inhale, exhale_. _Just play the loony card and hope it sticks, for your own sake. Open your eyes._ Her conditioning jerked her around like a doll, made her eyes widen at the blood, as if she hadn’t been aware of her surroundings until now. “Oh, no, I… I’m so sorry, I was afraid you’d see something like this! When I’m too anxious I wind up speaking nonsense… that is the reason for my continued treatment, you see… I thought I was ready for this, and so did the doctors, but now I…” She bit down on her bottom lip, bit down on the unwanted words, and pressed the knife further, moaned a strained ‘ _no_ ’. A man had been directed to bend over her, and examine the state of her hand, steady her, but she remained stiff, trembling.

“Looks like conditioning to me”, he said. It was the man with the shaved head. “Failing conditioning.” Frantic, the _obedient_ part of her shook its head in alarm, shook _her_ head in alarm, but she angled the knife into the cut. It wasn’t time to let go just yet.

“It is. Thorough. Took years. Nails cut bloodied after they noticed”, she growled as she made less and less sense, felt fainter and fainter, trying to get as many words out as she could. “Years. I tried remembering. Forgetting I knew how. Waited long. Took the chance. Sorry for blood all over the…” She trailed off, weakened by the effort of fighting against the impositions made on her mind. “An asset. Yes. But never a pawn”, she finally said, looking straight into Don Falcone’s eyes, for a second firm and steady. Then her eyes closed. She breathed in and out. Her grip on the knife grew weaker, and it slipped from her flingers. Conditioning enveloped her in its soft web, made her mutter a stream of apologies and explanations for her outburst, but the peace of obedience had been broken. Adrenaline coursed fast through her system, already circling down the drain. She was frantic. She could no longer hear herself speak.

The knife clattered on the ground. Men’s voices came to her, but she was beyond understanding.

“Can it be removed?”

“Could be tricky, but it will be done. I’ll work on it.”

“Good. Let’s not make a spectacle of this, send someone to clean up.” A brief pause. “Can you get answers? Without permanent damage to Miss Baxter.”

“That I can certainly do.”


	2. Of three minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: Torture, conditioning, and all that jazz. Graphic descriptions of violence and murder. Non medical use of ECT. Medical themes, medical abuse. Electric torture. Suicidal ideation. If anything from this chapter slipped, please do let me know and I'll update this list.
> 
> Please note that what is described within this chapter is not meant to be a faithful depiction of DID (or DID at all). Thank you for giving this a chance, kudos and/or comments are always appreciated.

At some point, Sam reasoned she’d probably nodded off. Crumbled to the stress of having ruined it all, of having breached her conditioning at such a vital time. _You’re dead now, you’re worth nothing now_. That’s what she remembered thinking frantically while she slipped first into silence, then into unresponsive faintness. The setting she awoke to was considerably different.

It took a few seconds for a dull pain to settle in her joints, for her eyes to adjust. Was she upright? Somewhat tilted forward, as the metallic pressure against her pelvis and the odd angle of the pavement suggested. White walls, white ceiling, flat black tiles on the pavement. Arms raised up, not quite suspended, immobilized. She could feel her fingers, which was a good sign. Her leg movements were restrained, to some degree, a fixed bar attached to her ankles prevented them from shifting too far. The shiny chrome of the structure she was hooked to reflected distorted hints of a mass of dark brown curls, dark skin, wide eyes. Herself. An IV was attached to her right wrist, and she could spot, if she tilted her head enough, bandages on her hand. Barely any feeling where the cut was supposed to be, only a kind of tightness. _Stitches?_ It seemed the structure had been crafted with long-term restraint in mind, her weight redistributed over several pressure spots. At some point, though, her body would suffer the effects of that position.

She wasn’t fully clothed, either. Some kind of sleepwear, it seemed – a shiny, white silk romper. _Tasteful. Just a little bit prim._ She couldn’t imagine Don Falcone having chosen it, though, or having chosen to leave her in a state of undress. She wanted to believe he’d put a bullet in someone’s head sooner than he would disrespect them that way. At least it covered up what counted; it merely left her limbs bare to the air and to the rapidly warming up metal.

Two distinct voices were chattering in her thoughts. The _rebellious_ voice was awake for once, but the _obedient_ one was still in control. It was noisy. Hard to focus. She didn’t notice she wasn’t alone until she heard a voice behind her. A real one. Not cold, rather matter-of-fact; a young man’s voice.

“Haven’t heard anyone speak so much and say nothing useful in… well, ever. That’s a record”, the voice said. She tried and twisted her head backwards to see its source, but the restraints prevented her from doing so. “Except you did insist we should let the doctors know about your current state. Obviously, we didn’t.”

 _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. “Please, I don’t know what I said. They say sometimes I regress. Psychotic breaks, paranoid tendencies. I need help”, her conditioning insisted, and she was too weak to fight it. Hadn’t she done enough? _Haven’t you done enough? Time to get the word out you’ve breached and let them dispose of you._ Talking to the doctors would alert _him_ , and _he_ ’d take care of it. “There’s no mission, I was talking nonsense. I need to go back. I wasn’t ready to get out.” She shivered. Disposal did not necessarily mean death. In her case, it would be quite unsubtle to kill her. There were worse things she could be than dead.

“You’re doing it again, which means”, the voice said, closer and closer, faint breath on her ear as he fiddled with the restraints. “That’s a fail-safe. Whoever is responsible for your conditioning would find out, and make sure you don’t speak a word of it to anybody else. _That_ is useful to know.”

Her arms were tugged upwards in a brisk, controlled movement. _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. She couldn’t calm herself down. She had to convince them, send a message, or the only way out of there would be self-termination. But she didn’t want that, did she? “I swear it’s true. There’s no conspiracy, no plan – there never is. It’s not even the first time something like this happens. It’s all in my files, just ask the institution. We misjudged my improvements, and I really need to go back”, she said, and through the last words the conditioning and her fear worked in tandem to make her break into sobbing. Hot drops drew a heavy path down her cheeks. That was good, that was believable, perhaps because she wasn’t just acting. It’d all be in the files, like she’d said. _He_ ’d been careful. “Please…”

The young man finally walked around her. The tall one with the shaved head. A lean figure covered in dark clothing nearly up to his chin, dark eyes evaluating her performance. She felt a touch to her face, her head tilted upwards. A tear broke off the angle of her jaw, to land somewhere out of sight.

“Wow, you are good. Good material to work on – you can’t condition someone to act well”, he said, making her suppress a full-body shudder. He’d be hard to convince. “We’re going to get better acquainted, you and I. Right, introductions, that’s the polite thing to do, isn’t it? My name is Victor Zsasz, and yours is Samuela… Baxter, is it?”

“Just Sam is fine”, she muttered, tried not to move. But her voice trembled. _Build intimacy, build complicity._ That was an option. “Please, at least tell me what you’re going to do to me.”

“Sam, then. Sam Baxter”, he said, ignoring the pleas. “Twenty-three years old, five feet two, 116 pounds. May have built tolerance for… sertraline and risperidone, was that it? But pretty healthy otherwise. Is there anything vital I’m missing? Heart conditions, respiratory issues? Actually, don’t answer that, I probably can’t trust a word you’re saying right now.” His tone had turned jovial. “Obviously, I _am_ going to hurt you. Just let the pain get you going, and we’ll be done in no time.”

She arched her body away from him, got stuck against the metal frame, and closed her eyes. Held her breath. She’d ruined it all. _Almost made it_. The other voice in the back of her head, the rebellious voice, rejoiced, leaving the rest of her to a useless struggle.

* * *

 

 _Inhale, exhale_. She opened her eyes once again. Something was in her mouth. To prevent her from self-terminating, she assumed. Her position had changed several times, and now she was inclined, her arms comfortable against the restraints. She considered leaning hard against them, but she wouldn’t be able to do that long enough for the blood to clot. And nothing around her neck she could strangle herself onto. _I don’t want to die_. Drops of ice cold sweat ran down her forehead. What had she said on the previous day? She couldn’t even remember. She only remembered a lot of pain, a lot of struggling. A lot of pleading, begging to be let go. Had it only been a day?

Young, leather-clad women entered her room now and then. Even before she saw them, she could hear them, heels clacking on the pavement. They moved her a little bit sometimes, checked her pulse, handled her IV. Made sure she stayed undamaged. They never spoke to her, and the lights never went off.

 _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. She was desperate, but focused. Somehow, she had to fix what she’d done.

At some point, Zsasz had returned. “The boss has decided you should keep appearances up. Meet with that doctor once a week from this point on. That’s a risky move, so our priorities have changed, for the time being”, he’d said, doing something to the lights. They’d lowered. They flickered, now. Her heartbeat increased in recognition. He strolled to her muted form, removed the gag from her mouth, and then injected something into the IV bag. “Just a little more conditioning of my own, to make sure you don’t send out a warning before we get the information we need. Don’t worry. You’re in good hands.”

He’d left her alone, but she wasn’t alone. There was horror in between the lights and shadows, monsters – _has he drugged me, he has, hasn’t he, that’s how it starts_. Any recognition was lost in the face of her hallucinated landscape. The restraints turned to tentacles. The room turned to water. As she drowned, over and over, she feared the monsters all around her most.

* * *

 

He’d returned as a voice, at some point. It was soothing. Even the pain was a welcome respite, a sudden break of clarity, and her old conditioning shrunk and twisted underneath the terrifying visions.

What was he using? _Tentacles_. Electrodes, probably, they caused her muscles to ache as though they were about to rip, to burst. A thought kept reoccurring: _this place doesn’t exist_. Nothing had been done to her. He kept repeating it to her, enough to make her doubt reality. It should’ve been ludicrous – she could feel the pain, the restraints, the tiles beneath her feet. And yet, a part of her knew that she’d comply, and soon. Ultimately, what he was asking was for her to obey, and it was a familiar request, and _if there’s one good thing about having succumbed to conditioning before, it’s that my mind has been primed to recognize obedience as a positive endeavour_. Hadn’t she silenced that rebellious part, already?

Of course, she fought. How long could it take until the meeting? She could give her message then.

* * *

 

How long had it been? Hadn’t he only just been there? When was the last time she’d sat? Or lain down, for that matter. When did she last eat? Perhaps the IV took care of that. It couldn’t have been days, could it? She’d tried, for a while, to keep the time with an old song, muttered under her breath, but she’d lost count pretty soon.

When she heard the song blaring, distorted, in the empty monstrous room, she had no way to know whether it was real or something her mind had conjured. She’d stopped singing afterwards.

Sometimes he came back to hurt. Sometimes he soothed, promised her pain would end if she obeyed, promised her safety. Sometimes she still tried to _inhale, exhale; open her eyes_ , but the pain grew in punishment whenever he saw that happen. She remembered something stuck to her temples, something to her mouth, a sudden snap, and then pain, like she’d never felt before (or had she? _Have you? I must’ve, I know I have_ ). Her head felt like red-hot iron, her throat like ground meat, her body battered, beaten. The offer for salvation came again.

Her eyes blank with confusion, she refused again with unexpected energy, and the young man – he looked terrible and dangerous, he looked like death incarnate in the haze of her mindscape, his eyes were empty and the curve of his lips promised horror and pain – frowned at that, then pulled those sticky vines from her head, those things she could no longer name. She remembered him saying something like ‘ _Filing this one for later_ ’, in a song-like tone that took a chilling edge in her frazzled state of mind.

 _Not long now. You’ll make it through._ But it was the rebellious part of her, and it had done enough. Why wouldn’t it shut up, like it had for so many years?

* * *

 

There was something horrid tearing up at her mind. Something digging its hands in her brain and tearing it apart – _isn’t that feeling familiar?_ Then, the conditioning. _Shut up, shut up, shut up._ In a way, it was two different persons in there. _Three, soon enough_.

The rebellious one seemed strengthened by the ordeal, not quite loud enough to be heard, but more vocal now than she had been in the past couple of years. As if she remembered how this kind of thing went, and wasn’t worried about the outcome. The other one – _the good, obedient one_ – the conditioned one, it was going hysterical. Self-termination still seemed like a possibility. _The only possibility? Or else I could hold out, if I’m strong enough, I could make it until the doctor’s visit, but that’s risky._ She just had to figure out how.

Maybe the monsters in the room could help.

The women going back and forth, they weren’t monsters, and they wouldn’t help. Sometimes they stayed as he spoke to her, passed him things, fiddled around her. One – small frame, East Asian, heavy makeup – had sat down to listen to her at some point. She’d pled, and cried, and begged, but it only seemed to cause amusement.

 _Two different persons, soon to be three_. Now that’d be a mess. A shattered mirror kind of mess. A glass shard to the throat kind of mess. _I guess I must trust them to fix it, though_ , the rebellious part thought. That fragment was actually grateful. This time, when he grabbed her chin and brought his face close to hers, tried to get her to obey, she laughed. _Not long now_. Her conditioning had her lean into the pain to escape her torturer, and that was a mistake, for pain was where the rebellious one thrived. She realized it too late.

* * *

 

She felt his presence again as she woke up. She was weak, and something in her immediately knew that she would falter. Hadn’t she earned some rest? The old plan tried its best to move on, one last time, one last desperate move. _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. “Please, kill me. Kill me. I’m done.”

He shook his head, shushed her, rubbing her wrists in circular motions. _Stimulating blood circulation?_ This was different. The lights were fluttering like butterfly wings, still, but she was huddled over in foetal position, her weight on her rear, on the flat ground. The wrist restraints were gone, and all that was left of the IV was soreness and a dark bruise which looked like it was spreading with each passing of his thumb – but that might’ve been a hallucination, as well. The structure remained above her, waiting for her to stand again.

It dawned on her that such a change could not have come from nowhere. “What did I say?” She sounded alarmed. Probably had good reason to be.

“Easy. You’ve fought harder than I imagined, with just how much your head has been messed with. Took a lot out of you”, he said, still with that calm, matter-of-fact tone which sounded so odd and wrong in such a nightmarish setting. “We’re not quite done, but I think we’ve made a big step forward, you and I. We’re working well together. It’s been a long day, though, and the boss wants you healthy, so healthy you’ll be.”

She stared at him wide-eyed, trying hard to fill the holes in her memories. “No”, her old conditioning was going haywire, and she trembled. “No, it can’t be…”

“Remember the word?”

 _Silvaplana_. It was almost in her grasp, but the new one, the third shard from her broken mind didn’t allow her to reach it. No. No, she didn’t remember it. She sobbed in response, shook her head, and saw him let go of her wrists, to walk to a nearby table. Metal tray. Surgical implements? No way, she would have cuts, she would know.

“One last question, then you really must rest. What happened here?”

The response was automatic, easy, smooth, alien. She knew the feeling intimately. “Where?” A frown, a head tilt, her reactions slowed down by exhaustion but otherwise seamless. Fingertips pressed hard against her intact palm. “Nothing happened. I’m fine, just a little bit overwhelmed. There’s so much to take in, out here.” She didn’t try to fight it. She was too confused to do so, anyway.

“That guy did some damage, hm? You’re like putty”, he commented, and pressed a syringe to her neck. A little sting, then relaxation reached every inch of her body. “But it’ll be fixed in due time, I promise. We just need to prepare you for these meetings, then we can go back to making you talk.”

She felt him unlock the restraints from her legs, but sleep took over.

* * *

 

She’d woken up inside a bed. Single bed, cheap frame, not unlike the ones she’d grown used to. Small bedroom, but with a high ceiling, the only visible source of illumination too high to reach. A chair in front of a desk. Everything looked plain, but new. _Newly bought?_ A red dot alerted her to a camera in a corner of the ceiling, staring down at her. There was a long knit cardigan over the chair, and once she slipped out of bed she wrapped herself in it, feeling chilly. Apparently, they’d decided white was her colour, or maybe it was simply what they had on hand.

Why would they have women’s clothing on hand, anyway? The girls she’d seen didn’t look like they’d wear this kind of stuff.

It didn’t take long for someone to come for her. A blonde woman with messy hair, armed. Leather and fishnets, bold makeup. _The man sure does have a type_. Sam followed the stranger down a corridor without a word, recognizing the same black tiles underneath her feet, her thoughts still fragmented, but not hazy from sleep. Her muscles ached badly, but she could move without too much of a fuss. All in all, she’d felt worse.

The woman opened the door, urged her inside the room. The metal restraints were still there, but there were two chairs as well. Only one vacant, and Zsasz in the other one, a bit too comfortable and leisurely for an interrogation. The door closed behind her, and she could only walk to the other chair and sit in front of him, wondering how deep this new conditioning went. She couldn’t recall anything but fragments.

“You slept well?” She couldn’t tell whether it sounded genuine, or like a mandatory preamble. _Or a test_. The words spoken by the third shard once again came out slightly alien to her, but seamless. Fingers pressed into her palm to accompany them. No lies. Just omissions. _So that’s what he’s done,_ _I can’t speak about what happens in here_.

“Hard to say, I passed out so fast I can’t remember a thing. I’m feeling awake, though”, she answered, and stared into the man’s eyes, hoping for a reaction of some kind. There was something unsettling about him.

“That’s good enough”, he said, studying her movements, her posture, perhaps evaluating just how normal she appeared. After so long spent barely dressed, she finally felt uncomfortable about her naked legs, and wrapped herself a little tighter in the new garment. She tried very hard to think about breaking the new conditioning, asking about the previous days, but all she could do was press her fingertips flat against the palm of one hand. The other was still bandaged. The bandages new. Again, that slight sense of tension, of pulling. “You’re not breaking out of that one so easily”, he said again, eyes fixed upon her hands. He’d noticed. “It usually takes longer to get into someone’s mind, but you’re a lucky break. Pretty persistent, though. That was quite the feat, back at Don Falcone’s. Must’ve taken you a while to plan it out, lots of willpower to keep it hidden. We’re making sure you won’t get the chance, this time.”

“Is it today? The doctor’s visit”, she finally said, her voice trembling a little bit. Nervousness. A part of her was relieved about the new conditioning, while another had her rub fingers flat into her palm, over and over.

“You’ll find out. For now, you’ll be getting instructions on how to behave. You’ll be good and obey, won’t you?”

“Of course”, she automatically answered. Innocent blinking, then a small, brief smile, a flash of undisguised sharpness in it. It was an act she was being forced to put, but it was _her_ act, and there was nothing preventing her from adding these little bits of herself to the routine; she’d learnt that with the old conditioning.

He smiled, lips pressed tightly, something self-satisfied in his expression. “Good.”

The lesson began. The newcomer, the _third_ paid attention as in her mind the other two began to wreak havoc. _It’s only temporary_ , repeated the rebellious one. The obedient one wept and screamed to be heard, only able to push over unresponsive flesh, over and over. _It’s all over. I’m done for. I’ve failed_.

 _I’ve succeeded_ , whispered the rebellious one, but shivered all the same, wondering how all those fragments were going to fit back into their places. _This man’d better be damn good at what he does_.

* * *

 

She’d been drugged back to sleep, but Sam could now assume it had been somewhere close to a week. She was allowed a shower, given clothes, and the privacy to put them on in a room stripped bare of anything she might use to self-terminate. Not that her new conditioning would allow that. It sent a part of her brain wild, but every time she’d press hard into her palm, relax immediately. _Stay down. Obey_. It was exhausting, all of it, but _it had to be temporary_. Didn’t it?

The clothes were newly bought. White again. For the sake of coherence? The only splash of colour a velvety shade of purple, three tiny silken roses on hairpins. Gloves to cover her injuries. Don Falcone’s doing, probably: everything she might need in order to look respectable. She’d dressed that way before, for fundraising events, prospect foster parents’ visits, public activities. As she took it off Sam noticed the romper’s tag, cut off, and slightly ragged stitching at the bottom edge. It wasn’t new, not like the rest of the clothes. Not the Don’s doing.

The meeting went well. A routine visit, the expected questions. She’d been supplied the answers. The official story was that she was spending time at Don Falcone’s estate while she adjusted to independence gradually, and would be moving out in a few weeks. He’d been invested in her recovery, already. It would surprise no one if he’d coddled her while she figured out her place in the world, like he would a foster daughter.

It wouldn’t surprise _him_. The one who’d sent her. That had been her mission, after all.

The Don had wanted to speak to her, as well. Zsasz had been present, guiding him through the things she couldn’t say out loud, the impositions made on her by the new set of rules. It had been a special kind of awkward: conditioning fighting conditioning, leaving her speechless half the time. She’d felt a little empty, through it all, and yet frantic. She’d spent years letting the conditioning take over, nurturing the secret rebellion in her head, and now that they were both awake, alongside another layer of conditioning, every word felt like a struggle. But she was strong.

She’d managed to get to the knife after all, hadn’t she?

 _Perhaps you could still manage to hold out until the meeting, then_.

They didn’t know about that one. _He needs to know_. All three voices together. One meant a different thing.

* * *

 

Back to the restraints for her. Sam wasn’t too surprised to awaken once again strapped in and confused. She knew what was in store for her, more or less. _Just don’t talk, don’t talk, they might get rid of you and save you the hassle._ That voice was getting a little bit faint, but it was still there. The lights weren’t flickering – _no need to mess with my mind any further_. Zsasz had made himself a little more comfortable, this time, which did not bode well for her. Rolled up sleeves, slightly unbuttoned shirt. He expected to be a little more active.

Don Falcone had specified no permanent damage, but one could still get creative within those parameters.

“What’s next?” She dared to ask, trying to feel bold, like she was in control. Like the process was something she’d chosen. _I have_. There hadn’t been enough time to break her to the point she’d tell him anything he asked. _Not worth it, so torture it is_.

He smiled at her bout of boldness, disappearing behind her. “Electrodes are still fun, aren’t they?” Metallic sounds, footsteps. He was close now, breath over her hair. “Just to start us out. Did you know it was your father’s method of choice, when holding interrogations? They say it was the way he found out about your mother and the singer. Wasn’t even asking for that. But people will say anything that comes to mind to get away, at some point.”

She stiffened at the mention of her parents, teeth clenching. She didn’t want to hear that. She’d been a child, barely aware of what her father’s position implied. _Let the dead stay dead_. She closed her eyes, trembled, sweating already. _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. But that could not go unpunished. Cold metal pressed against the top of her thigh, and her whole leg suddenly lit up with a melting kind of pain, boiling hot and pulsing through her, the muscle unable to fully clench due to the restraints. She heard herself scream.

“I won’t lie, breaking you would be much easier. It would take time, though, and messing with your head any further may be… risky. And that’s not what the Boss wants”, he said, still somewhere behind her, then reappeared to attach electrodes to her body, sensitive parts, vulnerable muscles. “So we’re doing this the old way. Hurting you until I get the trigger word from you. You can’t remember it right now, so don’t fret. It’ll come out. Just try not to pass out too soon, I need you able to speak”, he explained, lifting the romper’s shirt just slightly to place a few more electrodes on her stomach. She looked down on his arms, where tally marks were cut into his skin. No clue as to what they were for, but certainly nothing good. She could’ve counted them if he wasn’t moving. “Let’s start with easy questions.”

Even knowing what was to come was little help in the face of the startling pain. Every jolt of electricity coursing through her body left her more exhausted, making it harder for her voices to fight over the questions he asked. She fought hard to stay quiet – _the obedient one_ fought, unable to flee. Most of the times, she just screamed and begged. It might’ve taken hours to get something coherent out of her, something useful. _Another failure_. But he did.

“Describe your mission in detail”, he asked again, whispering in her ear so that her whole view was dominated by his figure, making himself seem inevitable. Something in Sam’s posture changed. She curved, abandoned her arms to hang above her head, slack, mournful, exhausted. He saw the opportunity, and gave her pain, as if he knew it’d bring the rebellious one tearing out of her mind, in fragmented revelations. This question would be easier. She’d already told them parts of it, after all.

“I was to insinuate myself as… as a daughter figure to Don Carmine Falcone, get close to…” She had to scream, to pause, but something made her grit her teeth and close her eyes. She forced herself to continue. “Make him trust me. Observe. Even small things, every day things. Learn all I could. Be unseen, harmless. Let him get used. Until he speaks of things freely while I move in the background. Bigger things. Be the ears. Be the eyes”, she trailed off in a whisper, weak, and sobbed hard, her arms and stomach contorting, on fire. “Please, I can’t take anymore, make it stop!”

He shushed her, almost gently, grabbed her face, brought his forehead against hers. “Keep going, songbird. You’re doing well. You want to be doing well, don’t you?” She found herself nodding, her fatigued breath against his, and she attempted to regulate her own on his, hoping it’d lessen the pain. It didn’t. “Good. Be the ears, and the eyes. And then what?”

She wanted to say it. She wanted to. With a scream, she stopped trying to avoid the pain, accepted it, twisted her wrecked muscles into it. “Then meet _him_ – be the mouth! Report! Oh, please, please, make it stop…”

For a while, she wasn’t sure how long, he tried going further. If she had to report, there had to be a way for her to come into contact with this man. By that point, though, all she could do was scream, and after enough of that he turned the devices off, looking somewhat disappointed. He moved with practical, brisk ease to press his fingers into her arms and thighs, brought a painful end to the cramps that threatened to turn even her rest into torture. Didn’t break any bones, he noted. Apparently that was a thing that happened, sometimes. By the time she realized he was going to leave, she was already growing faint.

* * *

 

“How did you know about my father?” She’d been awake for a while. Again, hard to tell how long. The process of falling asleep in one position, awakening in another had begun. She wanted to be bold while she still could.

He seemed oddly pleased with her. None of her minds was too sure how to take that. “I have an interest in this kind of thing. The… methods, not your father in particular. Although I did a little research on you, just in case. A different approach can be useful”, he smiled, checked her forehead, her pulse, her eyes and how they focused. “In any case, it’s good to find you energetic”, he then added. Like a secret encouragement. Was he enjoying her struggles to resist? The obedient one hardened. _I can take this. I won’t talk today._ The third one prompted a low chuckle from her body, eyes still focused on the man before her. _Yes, you will. Yes you will_.

The deranged sound didn’t seem to catch his attention.

She’d resisted, for a time. Conditioning kept an iron grip on her words while she screamed, again and again. He’d lowered the lights a bit, at some point. She’d found herself lulled into an odd state, a horrible state, of wailing and floating and trying to claw her way out of her own mind. The rebellious one, mostly, but the others as well. It took a while to find the proper thing. Electricity didn’t seem to be it, and neither did the sharp stinging pain he’d administered to the back of her exposed thighs. He’d tried some other things, with little success. But then he’d shown her long, thick needles, dragged them across the oversensitive, inflamed skin of her thighs and pressed them into the flesh, into her nerves, and she’d been brought back.

To a small ambulatory, underground, aggressively normal in everything that wasn’t positioning. White, reassuring, nondescript. White tiles all over, daffodils on the desk. To the pain, the injections of something horrible into her bloodstream, something that made her curve and crumble. ECT on occasion, when she grew rebellious and needed punishment; it wasn’t part of her therapy, and she was certain it wasn’t being done to her the proper way, the painless way. She’d cracked a tooth once; she’d lost an entire week’s worth of memories, and struggled to retain information for a while. Perhaps it was meant to correct some mistake in conditioning? The words, the instructions. The voice. She’d disappear for days at a time, and no one would question it. When she returned, she found that excuses had been made for her absence. It had taken months for her to figure out that pressing her fingernails deep into her palm could bring her back, if only for a moment, a brief, beautiful moment of freedom. She’d let them grow. Careless, _stupid_. _He’d_ found out. Nails cut so short it hurt, at first. They could always explain it away as preventing her from self-harming – it wouldn’t look out of place on her file. From that point on _he’d_ been careful not to give her pain that would resemble that, even a tiny bit; _he_ ’d explored, and found the proper pains, the dangerous ones, the ones to be avoided. But she knew it could be done again. She just needed to forget that she knew. For a while.

She told all of that, and more. The obedient one was stunned into silence for a while; she knew even the smallest detail could betray _him_. But she hadn’t given a description. _That’s something_.

Zsasz left her in the company of another woman for a while, one with dark skin she hadn’t seen before. The stranger prodded her a little bit, tested her, but otherwise just made sure she wasn’t damaged. She took the prodding almost gratefully. It was good to have something to focus on, when all three of her minds felt so faint and weak. She slipped back and forth between states of consciousness, gave up on attempting to keep track of what was going on. For a while, that was all she could do.

* * *

 

She woke to find Zsasz sitting in the chair, quiet, waiting for her to come back. As if she’d been away. Dark rings around his eyes. _Hasn’t slept?_ Dishevelled, or rather, not as tidy as he usually was. One sleeve was a bit crumpled, the buttons open. That was all, though. She certainly made for a much worse spectacle.

“You’re getting tired”, he commented, as flat as ever. He was taking her in, just like she was taking him in. Prey and predator, evaluating each other’s ability to keep fighting.

He was right, though. She was getting too tired to put on a show. “So are you”, she whispered, and stared. Waited.

The man didn’t reply, just smirked. He slowly headed towards her, busied his hands on the restraints. All of a sudden she was sitting, and uncomfortably so. Ice cold metal bar under her rear, a warmer one against her thighs. Arms immobilized. Neck held up rigid. Legs spread a little too far by the bar. She hated that part. Rolling her thighs inwards as much as she could, she made him aware of it, and without a word he draped something over her legs. Of course, the knit cardigan. “Wouldn’t want to make Don Falcone’s guest uncomfortable.”

She made a face at him, but he didn’t react, just went back to his chair, in front of her. He was giving her space, and she chose to use it.

“Where do the clothes come from, anyway?” Any topic would’ve done, really. She just needed to have a conversation. “Doesn’t look like I’m borrowing from one of your girls”, she added, tilting her head towards the door as much as the restraints allowed it.

“You’re not”, he said. _He’s taking a break, too, isn’t he?_ “Don Falcone has someone take care of most of them. That one belonged to a mark, though. You came in the same day, and I needed access to your skin, but it wouldn’t do to be rude to a guest. Two birds with one stone”, he shrugged. “Don’t worry. No blood on it. It was on the nightstand.”

“A hitman, then”, she mused, and shifted into the metal contraption, looking down at clothes that belonged to a dead woman. All three of her minds chimed in – she was supposed to be a little more unnerved than she was, wasn’t she? She took a breath, searched for something else to say, but her mind drew a blank.

“The Boss… still won’t allow me to use any kind of blade on you, so let’s just have a talk today, shall we?” He sounded casual, which made her alarmed. He had something in mind. A different approach. He went to take a folder from a nearby table, the one with the metal tray on it. She spotted surgery tools, probably never used for surgery. He sat back down, leafed through the folder. Turned it around for her to see. Sam cringed, on instinct.

It was a newspaper’s grainy rendition of a photograph. Even after all of those years, it was just like an out of body experience for her. Crime scene photo, one that had leaked a few months after the fact. _Charity Lane Bloodbath. A window opens on the night of horrors_. She’d forgotten the name of the newspaper that had published it, some third-rate scandal sheet, the kind that publishes pictures of body parts, crime scenes, morbid curiosities. Somehow, it kept finding its way to her. In it, she could see paramedics rushing in, a lone detective directing others out of view. A teenager’s bedroom, covered in childhood like old overgrowth. On one of the two single beds, two bodies. One face down, large, a man, collapsed, dark around his neck, dark all over from his neck. Blood did not look quite right on black and white print. The other was supposed to be her own. Underneath him, trapped, wide eyes towards the camera, half-tainted in the pool of ink – _of_ _blood_. She couldn’t see it, but between them was the pair of scissors she’d used on him, held in by the man’s weight.

Her teeth gritted, Sam raised her eyes from the newspaper cut out, back on him. “It’s a boring topic.” _I’ve spent the last decade talking about it. I’m tired_. One thing all of her minds could agree on.

“I just want to hear about it from your voice”, he answered. Flat. Hard to figure out his play. Left the picture up for a while, until he saw her loosen up and sigh, then closed the folder when he knew he’d won.

“Fine”, she said. Gave in. What use was this, to him? To anyone. “It was summer. I heard them fight in the bedroom, but it wasn’t anything new. I’d wanted to go to the Gotham Aquarium for weeks, to see the eels, the octopi. They had this giant crab I really liked. But it had been closed for… water pumps not working well, I think, most of the fish got moved somewhere else while they fixed it, so I hadn’t been able to go. And so I did this thing… this childish thing. A collage of sea life. Still at that age where you play like a child but hide it, thinking no one else does, right? I worked on it on my nightstand. Kept ready to turn off the light in case they passed my room, dad would’ve flipped to find me still awake. But they were way too busy, I guess. I didn’t want to listen to them, paid no attention. At some point I got tired, and turned off the lights. Fell asleep.”

She looked to him, as if to challenge him. Was that what he wanted to hear? Obviously not, but it was part of it. They all wanted her to get to the blood, or to the fight. But she really hadn’t paid attention to the fight. It wasn’t new. It was enough of a bother if she ignored it, there was no way she’d want to listen in as well. Zsasz moved to get more comfortable.

“What about your sister?”

He had to know that, as well. He’d done his research. But she shrugged, pretended he couldn’t have known. That seemed to be part of the game. “Caro. _Tiny_. Yeah, the little ankle biter was at a friend’s place. Sleepover after a birthday party. I’d never been allowed to have sleepovers at her age, so I was a bit angry because of that, too. But he would’ve gone after her as well, if she hadn’t been away. They adopted her almost immediately after the fact. Big money family, a good one, I think. Haven’t seen her since. I think she was angry at me. I would’ve been angry at me, too. She’s better off away from me and pissed.” So how old was Caro, now? It was hard to think straight, she was too tired. _Fifteen_. Yes. Maybe old enough to make it hard to recognize her. There was a chance she might find out, if she ever got out of there alive.

“Go on”, he said. Had she been lost in thought for long? Maybe he just wanted her to mention her sister. The doctors kept saying she avoided the subject.

“I woke up. There was something heavy on me. Dark, soft. A pillow on my face. Caro sometimes did it as a joke when I pretended to be sleeping, but she wasn’t so heavy. I think I screamed, I struggled. I managed to slide down, got my head out from under the pillow, thought it was clever. But he just threw away the pillow and put his hands to my throat. Not a word. My first thought was _monster_. Still a child”, she said, and smiled a tight, mirthless smile. Her tone grew increasingly flat, increasingly distant. She’d told that story too many times. “Then I thought it’d have to be a murderer, a burglar, something like that. But there was light from the window now and then, from cars passing in the street, and I saw him. My father. Or a monster wearing my father’s face – that was easier to believe. I was starting to choke, and I flailed, felt the nightstand, I think I was heading for the lamp. Got glue on my fingers instead, then something metallic. And I used it. I struck down once, it was… strange. His neck gave in almost immediately, it was like plunging a knife in a cake. I must’ve been real high on adrenaline by then, or maybe it was just the right spot. He was very calm up until then, you know? But then he got really angry. Struggled to stand. Tore my hand off the scissors, took them out. He struck down as well. Straight in my stomach. You’ve seen the scar. Stumbled back down on me, keeping me in place. Keeping the scissors in place. Sticky wet everywhere, warm, I knew what it was even if it was dark. Spots in my eyes, my chest burning. I managed to call for help. I called for mother, then regretted it, thought she’d kill me for it. I didn’t know. Didn’t find out for sure until nearly a week had passed, actually. They didn’t want to tell me in the hospital, at first. That’s it. That’s all of it”, she concluded, forcing her eyes back to him.

“It’s not.” He hadn’t changed expression. Not unexpected. Most people gave her something – usually pity, but this was a professional. “That’s the summary you’ve taught yourself to give”, he said. Flat, flat, flat. She felt frustrated, but realized her tone hadn’t been all that different. “What did you feel? When you struck down. What did you feel?”

She actively kept herself from doing what came natural. _Narrowed eyes make people suspicious, answer too fast and they’ll think you’re lying_. She’d learnt during the trial, and got better at it in therapy. “Fear. I felt frantic. I wanted to live, and I was scared.”

“That’s before you struck”, he corrected her, and she failed to repress a grimace. She wanted to be furious, but he was right. “I meant while you did it. When you felt his skin give in.”

She breathed in, slowly, considering. _Is that what he’s trying to do, now_? The obedient one saw the chance. _Build intimacy, give him what he wants, make it good_. But that went against everything she’d ever taught herself, and conditioning didn’t cover the way she spoke about that night. She even put a little rage in her voice, a bit of outrage, a glimpse of repressed emotion. “Nothing. I just saw a chance and took it. I couldn’t even believe it was my father, I just wanted to…”

A jolt of electricity went down her back, unexpected. She yelped, gasped, helpless. Settled in. Gritted her teeth, and glared. Anger. This time it was real. The little shit was smiling at her, he’d just pressed a button and she’d… _Calm. Down._ She breathed in again, still fuming. “Why are we wasting time on this?”

“Because, Sam… You don’t mind that I call you Sam, do you?” He asked, standing up to walk towards her, and she shrugged. She’d asked him to, after all. “There’s a little monster in there, waiting to come out. A fighter. And she’d be useful to us. If we acknowledged her, that is.”

 _A fourth?_ No, she couldn’t stand a fourth. _It’s you, you idiot_ , chimed in the third one, bored, and the rebellious one took over her features to make an annoyed grimace. “This is just you getting your rocks off. You gain nothing by making me say that… what? That I _supposedly_ enjoyed it? Is that what you want to hear?”

“I want the truth”, he said, bending over her, hands upon her forearms. Face too close to hers for comfort. “That’s all I want”, he continued, putting one hand to his chest, as if he was swearing solemnly. He looked dead serious. She glanced down at the hand that was gripping her forearm, hard now, and saw a thin streak of blood travelling down his hand, a single drop. _Tally mark_? She bit down on her bottom lip, looked back up, back into his eyes. That could easily be just for him to get off on, but if there really was a plan, none of her minds could see through it, and if the obedient one ( _the conditioning, the conditioning, you’re only one_ ) couldn’t stop her, then it was worth a shot.

“Just between the two of us, then”, she said, her voice dipping low in a mockery of a sultry tone. “It felt frantic, like a rush. Like a victory. It plunged in and it felt like nothing I’d ever felt before, it felt like I imagine decades of planning revenge coming to a head would feel, I felt the hit vibrate in my whole body and I felt…” She paused, made sure she was composed. Had her breathing deepened a little bit? Or had his? The blood drop had reached her arm, she could feel it. “I felt alive. I felt unrestrained, and in control, and alive. Just for a moment. Before the horror dawned on me”, she trailed off, her voice already growing a little fainter, as if admitting it had taken something from her, a pillar, balance. _Had I told the doctors, there’s no way I would be free, now_. The obedient one intervened with a whisper in the back of her head. _Maybe that would’ve been for the best, then_.

But she’d lost her focus on him, and he’d gotten a tiny bit closer, both hands around her arms now, his grip gentler. “First kills”, he smiled. Wistful. “And nothing has ever felt as good as that, afterwards, has it?”

She should’ve expected him to say something like that, but it still struck her in a startling way. Perhaps it was the way he said it – like it wasn’t meant as a generic praise towards the act of killing. Like it was meant for her, specifically. Like he knew. She blinked, nervous, feeling his breath on her, his eyes on her, unescapable, and realized she couldn’t even try to lie.

“But you could feel that way again”, he continued. “Have you ever considered killing _him_ , instead? This doctor guy we’ve mentioned, the other day. That’d feel just as good, wouldn’t it? Even better. None of the guilt, all of the pleasure”, he said. Smiled at her confusion, at the effect of those words, a stone into a still pool of water. He left her there, walked away. Left her to bow her head and tremble under the weight.

“ _No. No, no, no, no._ _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. No…_ ” _Inhale, exhale_. _Inhale, exhale_. _Open your eyes_. The old conditioning wound up around her mind with feverish grip, trying hard to suppress the thoughts. But it was too late. The seed had been planted. The rebellious one considered it, both horrified and excited at the thought. She couldn’t quite picture it – the obedient one kept repressing, deleting, but fragments came to her in a flood. She realized she’d wanted to. For a long time, she’d wanted to, in secret. _He wasn’t fucking around_. She managed to smile, alone in the room, but she broke into sobbing, tense in the cage of the uncomfortable structure.

On one arm she could see the white imprint where he’d gripped her hard, and a smudge of bright blood, trailing up towards her elbow where he’d smeared it.


	3. The Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: Most of what I've put a warning for in the previous chapter. Torture, electrical torture, conditioning, medical abuse. Choking. Sleep deprivation.
> 
> Fun fact: this chapter, the previous one, and the next used to be a single beast of a chapter in my first drafts, proving I have no restraint.

_He wasn’t fucking around_. The next session had been easier. Pain, which was expected. Complete darkness, which was not. She’d sung like a bird. Told her interrogator all about the little missions she’d been given before this one. _Be the eyes. Be the ears._ Listen, watch, learn, discover. About doctors, about nurses, about other patients. They were trial missions, mostly. Sometimes they were about safety. _He_ needed all that to be a secret, and so _he’d_ send her out to find out just how much someone suspected. To change dates on reports, memorize signatures and try them, over and over again until they came natural to her. Handwriting, in general. Memorizing whole pages worth of information, and going back to report. _Be the mouth_. Suspicions quenched, irregularities explained or done away with completely. She gave details, where she could.

The obedient one realized that, with that information, they’d be able to exclude a number of subjects. Like Easton and Glover, for example. That put _him_ in danger. But they hadn’t gotten to _his_ name yet. _Or to the word_.

* * *

 

Shower, new clothes, makeup. Was it visit day already? When she looked at Zsasz in confusion, he just shook his head, then gestured towards the bundle of clothing again. “Don Falcone would like to see you. Didn’t seem in the mood to take ‘ _she’s fragile right now_ ’ as an answer. Go on.”

_Fragile_. She had to smile. She felt like a broken window. A broken mirror. A broken glass about to scream its head off. Fragile was not the word for it. The shirt was white again, but the skirt had a flower print. An old brooch with violets on it. She was given real food, solid food. Oatmeal. Cooked greens. Everything tasted blander than it looked. Hospital food. _Better than the IV_.

She looked presentable. She walked all the way to the car, with the hood on again. Fresh air was a shock, afterwards. Sunlight, real sunlight, and fresh air that swelled her lungs to the bursting point. It took some focus to walk all the way to the man waiting for her, elegant as always, composed. The Don. Her head was spinning. Fresh air was too much. He asked her how she was, and she was too weak to feel embarrassed when she answered that she needed to sit down. He seemed suitably concerned.

“I’m sorry you’re being put through this, Miss Baxter”, he told her after showing her to a bench, armed men always at a safe distance from them. “If it’s too much, I can tell Victor to give you some time. Let you recover.”

She shivered at that. The obedient one clamoured for him to do so, while the other two… She turned to look at him, fingertips pressed against her palm, shook her head fast. “Please, don’t make offers such as these, Don Falcone. I… could not refuse. And I want to be of one mind, again.” That was the closest she could get to refusing. _It probably also sounds deranged_.

Did he look pleased? He was smiling, and for a moment she wondered whether his courtesy was nothing but a test. “I hear you’re making progress. My men are parsing through the information you’ve so kindly shared. There’s a few leads already.”

But they weren’t moving, yet, were they? Wanted to find out more, instead of risking alerting the man responsible for her conditioning. It was so hard to even think about it, still. Trying to communicate about it was a nightmare, conditioning preventing her from either acknowledging the topic or begging to be spared more torture, and she merely nodded.

“Will you make it, Miss Baxter? I promise you, I’ll have Victor fix you up as soon as it is possible.”

“I’m strong”, she said, her brow a little furrowed, nodded to herself. “I’ll get through this.”

_I’ll get through this, and make it to the day of the secret meeting, and I won’t show up, and it’ll be clear that something’s off_. The third cringed, made her body tremble. _Oh, no, he needs to know, he needs to know, I need to tell him_. The rebellious one steeled herself. _He’ll reach me. He did before_.

They made small talk. At the very least, Don Falcone was a pleasant conversationalist. They spoke of theatre, of music. Old flicks she’d watched in the common areas. He sounded knowledgeable, but seemed to value her insight, the taste she’d developed from whatever she’d had access to. Either that or he was good at faking it. Those kinds of topics made it easy to put up a front and just talk, pretend she wasn’t light-headed and weak. Plus, it was wise to have her seen around the Falcone estate, considering what she was meant to say to the doctors. _I’m falling apart, aren’t I_? The brooch had sharp edges. One of the armed men had kept his finger on the trigger the whole time she’d been there. She only put two and two together on her way back.

* * *

 

_Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. “What day is it?” An innocent question. _Please, please answer_.

“I’m not answering anything you ask, so don’t try it”, the dark-skinned woman had said, glaring. She looked a little worried. Had probably been instructed not to engage. Those few words may have been too much already.

Later, the woman must’ve told Zsasz about what she’d asked. He seemed a little bit intense, this time. _Angry_? She squirmed in the restraints when he placed his hand on the back of her neck and drew her closer. Forehead against forehead, a wide smile which sent chills down her spine. “Getting desperate in there?”

Was he talking to the obedient one? ( _Why would he, you’re just one, just one_ ) “I just wanted to know what day it is”, she tried, but it was taking lots of effort for her to sound natural. He was onto her. She’d lost track of time alongside all of her ability for subtlety.

“Must be getting close to the date, then”, he said, still grinning from ear to ear. He was happy about it. _Why would he be happy about it?_ “This means we’ll have to work extra-hard.” _Oh_.

First came the electrodes. She was learning to hate those. They gave her an edge, but it was starting to feel like it was not nearly enough. Or they brought her too close, left her too vulnerable to further hits. _Both_. He was relentless, this time around – allowed her no breaks, no mercy until she’d screamed herself hoarse. Heat was scary, but heat she could take, which he noticed pretty soon. So back to the stinging pain it was. Canes, she was pretty sure this time. Easy to underestimate, but harrowing on the spots he’d already worked on. But today she was stronger. Maybe it was the food from the previous day. The sunlight. Hard to tell. He was growing displeased, she could see him frowning. Considering.

“Before I go on”, he said, rolling up his sleeves, removing gloves she hadn’t noticed he was wearing. “Please be aware that I’m not doing this lightly.” Honest, he sounded honest. She panicked almost immediately. Was he going to seriously injure her, then? The fear made her slippery, and it only got worse when she realized that he was reaching for her neck.

There was nowhere to slip away to when his hand closed around her throat. She blinked in surprise, horror, lost herself to it. Removed herself from her own body. All of a sudden, Sam was no longer there. She was on a bed, at night, and someone was above her, and Caro’s stuffed rabbit had fallen off the bed, and…

Two hard tugs at the restraints. She felt warmth on her hand, on her arm. Black spots in her eyes, frantic wheezing, throbbing in her temples. He let go of her, grabbed her by the hair to lift her head as every breath hurt, as everything was spinning, brought his face in front of hers. “When and where do you report?” Loud enough for pain to stab her from ear to ear, punctuating each word. _Maybe it’s just the lack of oxygen_.

When she failed to respond, he did it again. Exactly the same. Then again. The third time, she shook her head, snarled, snapped.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” She croaked out, not even able to yell it. He grabbed her hair again, causing her to frantically try and tear herself away from him.

“When and where do you report”, he repeated, tugging her forward. “Five seconds, before I start again. Clock’s ticking.”

But the rebellious one was in control now, wasn’t she? Emerged from her mind like from a bad dream. She realized it too late, blinked, looked around in disbelief, then frantically struggled to speak through the pain. “July 26th! July 26th. The night after that. 3 o’clock. That’s when, that’s…”

“I’m sorry to inform you that we’re still missing some parts, Sam”, he announced, a discordant, gleeful note in his voice, before bringing his hands to her neck a fourth time. It nearly lifted her from the restraints. “Try again, please, and do better this time!”

She re-emerged from the fourth one in confusion. Mouth wide open, sucking in air, air that hurt her when it went down her throat, down her lungs. His hand kept the hair from her face as he yelled once again, only increasing her sense of panic. “Location now! Details! Quick!”

_Unfair. He’s added a new one_. She tried her best. “Endsbury Park. The little lodge to the east side. Behind the trees. Alone. I’d wear red if anything was wrong.”

He nodded. Seemed pleased, sounded calm. “Better. Now, how were you supposed to get there?”

For a second she thought he’d let her breathe, but he just went for her throat again. There definitely was something warm pouring down her arm. _Blood_. When he let her go, she didn’t give him time to grab her by the hair and ask again, just rasped out as many words as she could bear to in between wheezing. “Escape under cover of night. Don’t get seen. I’ve memorized the map. No transportation. There’s a path through the backstreets. By foot. If I can’t go then leave a piece of white fabric there within the week.”

Finally, he let her rest, patting her shoulder gently. When she looked up to him, tears warm on her cheeks, trembling from head to toe, he had the decency to try and pretend he hadn’t just had the time of his life. _Give me a fucking break, I know that made your week_. “There, there?” He sounded awkward, and turned from comforting to congratulations. “No kidding, though, that worked like a charm. You did great. Good job.”

“ _Chinga tu puta madre_ ”, she growled under her breath, still trying to recover from the shock. That’d set her night terrors back years, she was sure.

He stared at her, tilting his head to one side. Displeased, for one moment, then blank again. “I was about to kindly ask you not to get mothers involved, but I _did_ just get your father involved, so… Fine. That’s fair.”

It took her some time to compose herself, which he allowed, already loosening the restraints, checking the spot where she’d cut the bottom of her hand trying to tug it out of the metal shackle. It wasn’t deep, hadn’t bled all that much. He slipped a pill in her mouth, and she took it without question, took the water he forced her to drink it down with. Started rubbing the areas where the metal had dug into flesh, didn’t allow her out, though. There was still a nervous strength in her. _He’s not giving me any chance, as flimsy as it is_. That was probably wise. Her mind was a storm. The fragments of her oddly silent. When she spoke, it was hard to imagine which one of the shards was in control. ( _You’re just one_ , said an exhausted voice.)

_When the obedient one comes back, she’s going to flip_. She chuckled to herself. _A bag of mirror shards. Bag of kittens. No more, please, I need this to be over_. “Please, make me one again”, she whispered in a rush, trying not to let the others hear, trying not to let herself hear.

He regarded her in silence for a few seconds. For once, she seemed to have reached him, somehow. “We’re getting there”, he said. It didn’t help. She squirmed, her breathing just a tiny bit faster. He touched her cheek to lift her face, to look into her eyes. “I will. I promise.”

She half-passed out soon after that. Only vaguely remembered being moved somewhere else, low light from screens, beeping, buzzing. She wasn’t sure she’d forgive him the choking. _But oh, if this all works out, I will, I will, it will have been worth it_.

* * *

 

Same clothes from… was it a few days before? She’d been brought over to Don Falcone’s again. She felt hazy, as though she’d been drugged. This time, it was another doctor visit. _They don’t do house calls often_. Easton seemed pleased to be there, but unnerved by the armed guard, the omnipresent guard. But he had nothing to hide, did he? Nothing important, at least. Not him.

Walking around was still tiring, so they’d met for tea. Sofas. A different parlour than the previous one. No butter knives. How many parlours were there? They’d given her gloves again. Gloves looked prim, in line with the way she’d presented herself so far. They’d given her a foulard to hide the bruises on her neck. The Don hadn’t looked too happy about those, but he hadn’t said anything. _He probably knows this was necessary_. The visit had gone well. She’d been allowed a small reduction in dosages, in exchange for more sunlight, more physical activity, ‘and do give us a call if anything feels off’. It sounded like bullshit. _Everything feels off all the time, whenever they change my meds, and right now everything feels off_. In all honesty, she had no clue whether she was still taking the stuff she was supposed to take. Perhaps they administered it via IV.

Later, Don Falcone had congratulated himself again with her. _Progress_. Sugared tea had brought her a little bit of strength, but it had made her queasy, and so she’d listened with eyes glazed over, hoping it’d be over soon. _I’ve definitely been drugged_. Otherwise, the obedient one would be tearing her hair out, trying to figure out how to fix the previous day’s mess. Her attention perked up at a specific question.

“What do you think you’ll want for yourself? Once this is all over.”

_I want to kill the bastard who broke me the first time_. “Something nice”, she said. _Don’t answer too fast, it makes it sound fake_. “A place to call home. Some kind of work where I can express myself, maybe. I did say I’d like to remain as an asset, if possible. That’s still true.” None of that was actually a lie. She flushed, unable to stop the words that came out of her mouth afterwards. “There’s a lot of things, but if I had to pick one, I want to be me again.” Did that sound childish? Insane? No, he knew. He had to know.

* * *

 

Helplessness was a terrible feeling, and it was starting to affect her. All three of her. They hadn’t allowed her to sleep. At least, she thought they hadn’t. She was coming apart at the seams, and they knew.

The obedient one had spent the last few hours giving in to bouts of wailing and screaming, testing the restraints, doing anything to try and get out. Her movements felt weird to her – jittery. _The effect of whatever drug is currently leaving my system? Lack of sleep? Both._ When Zsasz finally entered the room, she looked onto him with big eyes. Big eyes, big tears, big sobs, trying so very hard to inspire mercy of some kind. _Aren’t you fucking pathetic_. _Too late to self-terminate, bitch_ , laughed the third. _You’re not helping_ , chimed in the rebellious one. They all felt the effects of that failure, after all, willing or not.

_Am I beyond help_? She felt like she was beyond repair. She was also sure she’d said it out loud, but probably hadn’t – or maybe he’d just ignored her. He didn’t talk to her this time. Just shifted her to a new uncomfortable position, set the lights a little brighter, making her twist and close her eyes, as if the radiance had affected her whole body. How long? How long? The IV bag kept emptying, being filled again. She’d lost count of how many times.

* * *

 

Zsasz seemed to be in a conversational mood again. Which was no concern of hers. She was just about done. “There we go”, he mumbled, moving her to a sitting position once again. Was she still sobbing? No, not this time. This time it was hard to conjure up even the slightest hint of an emotional response. “Thought we might have another chat.”

“I don’t need to talk, I need you to fix it. Please”, she said. They said. All meaning different things.

“We’re impatient today, aren’t we? But you did say please, so no punishments for being greedy”, he said, cheerful.

_Once I’m one, we’re going to have a fucking talk_. “I’ll do anything. Please”, she continued. _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. _Fuck_. Fingers pressed hard into her palm, harder, harder… he had to pry her fingers open.

“Don’t tempt me”, he said. Laughter in his eyes. He seemed well rested. She envied him. “But I have to tell you, you’re at your lowest. Going utterly haywire. Nowhere to go but up, right? There”, he said, fixing the cardigan over her legs. This time she was too preoccupied to notice how naked she felt.

“How is talking going to help?” It was whining, but she decided she had a right to it. She _was_ being tortured, after all. Zsasz sighed, overly dramatic, and gently tapped her chin to lift her face before speaking.

“You’ve indulged me before, and it worked out. You really should’ve learnt to trust me, by now.”

She kept quiet, lowered her eyes, gave the smallest nod she could manage. Wasn’t sure if she meant it.

“Where were we?” He begun, sitting ahead of her, hands joined at the fingertips as he focused. “Right. Things haven’t felt the same since that night, have they?” A hint of concern in his voice. _Could be just for show_. She made a grimace, but found it hard to fight the topic. He knew how to time his conversations.

“No. No, of course they haven’t”, she answered, letting her head sway heavy to one side. “I’ve killed my father. He killed my mother. Of course things haven’t felt the same.” She was tired, they all were.

“Give me the best thing you’ve experienced since then.”

She had to focus at that. Opened her mouth, frowned as she closed it, looked away. Why couldn’t she think of anything worth speaking of? “I… I’ve had my fun. I made friends in the system. Read good books, watched… movies, on some nights. Bootlegs of theatre plays. We had real actors once, at the institute. For a charity thing. It was nice.” _Fuck, how is it so hard to come up with something good_? “The art therapy was nice. Been with a boy, briefly. It wasn’t the best life, but I haven’t been deprived, exactly.”

“And yet you can’t come up with anything special. Anything intense”, he said, his voice a slight bit lower. She shivered. “That sounds pretty deprived to me.”

“That’s not true”, she protested. The obedient one came to the rescue. In her own way. “Obeying felt intense. Reporting.” _I fucking hate you_. The rebellious one. Then, softer. _I fucking hate me_. She looked up at him, feeling ashamed. Feeling like she _should_ be ashamed.

He stood up, and she cringed instinctively, watched him walk towards her until he was bending over her body once again. Hands on her forearms. “Hate to tell you, Sam”, he started, and bent just a slight bit more when she squirmed, to hold her at eye level. “That doesn’t really count, does it? You were rewired to feel that way. Either that, or you’re a true natural”, he trailed off, gripping her chin hard to prevent her from trying to escape his gaze. “But even if you were, he’d have enhanced it. _I_ would’ve enhanced that kind of response. Unless I really wanted to torture the subject. It’s more convenient that way. You know, it speaks well of you that you actually managed to break out of it, if that was the case. Got your priorities in order, hm? Duty first, then pleasure”, he said, and let his grip go slacker. This time, she didn’t squirm away, just felt a chill run down her back. Had she ever gotten off on obeying? Not quite, but the way he spoke about it made her wonder, made her doubt, and it left her feeling cold and dirty. “Speaking of which, back to where I was heading. The last thing that touched you deeply, the last thing that felt truly, really good…”

“Was killing my father. Yes”, she said, her tone hard. “Satisfied?” She wasn’t sure where that sudden bout of energy had come from. She was sure it wouldn’t last.

He smiled. A cross between morbid satisfaction and the happiness of greeting an old friend. “Does _he_ know?”

She narrowed her eyes. Shook her head.

“So you’ve been able to keep secrets from him. That… takes away his power just a little bit, doesn’t it?”

_Oh, you asshole. That was good._ She felt herself smirking. How had the rebellious one managed to surface? She wasn’t in pain. “It does.” It felt good, even if she knew it was temporary. _Enjoy it while it lasts_. The third. The third could be an annoying little shit, maybe because she rarely managed to stay on top, and knew she was just as temporary. That had to be frustrating.

She stared into his eyes, head tilted back to see him properly. For a moment, she felt something twisting at her – an urge. It wasn’t new, but uncommon. He did something he hadn’t done before. Dug his hand into her curls, fingers cradling her head, long and warm, keeping her still. “I promised I’d fix you, but I do need your cooperation. There’s two things left for you to give me. Next time I’m coming in here”, he said, and bent to whisper in her ear. “You’re giving me one of them. You’re giving me _his_ name.”

The obedient one reeled in horror at the thought. But she wasn’t on top. Sam’s breathing deepened, and she closed her eyes, savouring. She still couldn’t picture killing _him_ , but it was getting a little easier to formulate the thought.

“Do you know what comes after that?” Still whispered, but moving away from her. His breathing against her cheeks, then on her lips, then out of reach.

She felt in danger, all of a sudden, but kept her eyes closed, head abandoned against his hand. “The word.” The third one had slipped on top.

“That’s right”, he said. “Will you be a good girl and obey, Sam?”

She opened her eyes, slowly. He hadn’t moved. She took in the moment – the weight of her own body, his eyes, so dark, the way her head was spinning. But she couldn’t keep him waiting. “Of course”, she whispered.

It lasted for maybe a second longer. Then he stood up, guiding her head before his fingers slipped away, leaving her with nothing. “We’ll see.” _Build intimacy_. Now that he wasn’t touching her, she had to suppress a nervous chuckle. Hadn’t that been oddly intimate? Perhaps she’d dreamed it all. She had to.

He left her alone. Not to rest, but to weaken further. When the obedient one resurfaced, she sought refuge in the loop of her conditioning, knowing they wouldn’t let her sleep. _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_ …

* * *

 

She’d thought the cycle of blacking out, only to awaken to torture was bad. This was worse. She wasn’t sure how long she’d gone without sleep. She’d started seeing shapes, things. There weren’t many shadows in the room, but the ones she saw were all too happy to morph into something else. Mostly it was tentacles. She wasn’t sure why. Sometimes blotches, thick watery blotches, living ones. Blood. Living blood. Black blood, grainy blood. They sometimes liked to take shapes that reminded her of the picture, and she feared that, at some point, she’d find herself staring at a perfect rendition of it. She’d heard voices. Whispers. None making enough sense to converse with. She’d started singing again, to keep herself company. In a low voice, sometimes whispering. As if it’d disturb the voices. ‘ _When Sunny gets blue, her eyes get grey and cloudy’_ … Sometimes the girls would sing in the orphanage’s dormitories. A small act of rebellion. A lone teenager’s voice that could’ve belonged to any single one of the kids gathered there. Sometimes others joined in. Of course it was silenced as soon as possible, often by other kids who just wanted to sleep for fucking once, but she’d always liked hearing the voices while halfway in the realm of dreams. A few times, she’d been the voice.

Caged birds sang, too.

When Zsasz returned, it was a horrid kind of relief. _Like being relieved to see the gallows_. No pleasantries this time. _Just hard work_. The third chuckled in the back of her mind. Only when he began to fix the electrodes a voice emerged from her lips. “No, no, no, no, no, please, no…” _Whiny_. Had to be the obedient one. Or maybe it was all of them. This time she really couldn’t tell.

He shushed her again. Then it began. This time, every inch of pain she gained was an inch further into unknown depths, a gulp of water directly in her lungs. He didn’t draw the pain from her, he guided her into it. _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. The obedient one stayed strong, but it was like fighting a nightmare. Maybe it really was a nightmare. Maybe she’d fallen asleep at some point. _Fight all you want, but nightmares don’t get tired_. She did. She was tired.

“It’s just a name”, he said. “You just need to say it out loud.”

_Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. The pain, the pain was unspeakable. He’d turned up the voltage, or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe this was just how bad it had gotten for her.

“This isn’t going to stop, you do realize that, don’t you? There’s going to be no breaks, no rest for you. Not until you give me”, his voice suddenly harsh, behind her, right into her ear. “What I’m asking for”, his hand on her throat, grabbing, pulling backwards. _Oh, no, oh, no, no, no_. _Anything but that_.

_Inhale, exhale –_ it couldn’t work if she couldn’t breathe. Her vision went black, and she could swear she felt the weight of a body, saw the light of a car run past the room and light it up and _there it is_ , the monster, but he had different features now, a doctor’s coat, that wasn’t her father…

Wheezing. Gasping. He’d let go. “You will tell me who he is!” Too loud, it made her head hurt.

A small voice, rasping. “Brown eyes. He has brown eyes, he has… greying hair, dark…” She stopped, the words stifled in her throat. _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_.

When he grabbed her again she thought, with inexplicable clarity, that they had to have narrowed it down to a few doctors, already. Not many could fit the profile. And there was the meeting, when she’d report, too, so this was just for safety. Plan B. In case things went south. Was she that likely to break once they’d remove her conditioning? His hand tightened, she stiffened to stand taller, and all of a sudden a flash of hot pain curled from the top of her thigh to the tip of her toes, twisting her, drawing a sound she couldn’t name from her strangled throat. “The name!” His voice again.

She visualized it. A nametag on the door, dirty bronze and black etched letters, normal, so normal, she always thought about how normal he seemed… “Davis! Doctor… Wilford Davis.” There it was. The word that would condemn him. She felt Zsasz take a deep breath, behind her, his hand still on her neck, leading her backwards as much as the restraints allowed it, to rest against his chest. _Is he going to kill me now?_ She let her trembling body go. _Now that’d be a joke_. Oh, but it felt nice. She just wished she could rest.

“Great job”, she heard him say, mouth against her hair. “Great job, Sam, I knew you could do it.” He unhooked her from the restraints, at some point. Gave her another pill. Fingers pressed into her flesh, to soothe muscle, to restore circulation. She remembered fragments. She remembered tentacles coming out to grasp at her.

She remembered whispering to him. “Can I sleep now?” Eyes closed, not to see. She needed rest.

“Say please”, he chuckled. _Oh, how pleased he sounds_. She found herself smiling in response, but couldn’t laugh. “Yes, I think you can sleep now”, he said, before she could actually force a ‘ _please’_ from her lips. She was grateful for that. She was asleep.


	4. The Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: Most of the same stuff as the last chapter. More choking and suicidal ideation. Creepy re-enactments of past traumatic experiences.
> 
> Writing this part was an interesting challenge, but I'm honestly glad to be moving onto something different. By which I mean, yes, we're done with torture for a while. Will take some time before I update again as I work on the next chapters.

She woke up in the little bed, this time. Her neck still hurt. She remembered the bruise pictures from when she was a kid. It had looked pretty bad back then. _Scarves for a while_.

Zsasz had sent the Asian girl for her. Rather pretty up close. There had been no prodding, no mockery this time. Battered as she was, Sam was practical enough to know when it was time to forego pride and take the help that was offered. A fatigue clung to her, and she still wore a sheen of pain under her skin. She’d been given a lilac dress, helped tie her hair in a way that wouldn’t make her look like she’d crawled out of a swamp, but her hands were trembling too much for anything more complex. The dress reminded her of her mother. _Uma Blasco, always smiling, saccharine, fashionable_. _Harmless_. She could live with that. Looking harmless had its advantages.

Going upstairs seemed a little desecrating. Like walking backstage. Like walking into a priest who wasn’t finished donning his regalia. Still, Sam followed. She sat on a sofa. Black leather. White walls. Rather minimalistic, but respectable. _Living room_. Whatever that room was for, it was not living. Business, maybe. Tea ready to be poured in simple white cups. Possibly for her benefit. Half of the shelves were filled with books in a language she didn’t know, seemingly untouched.

Zsasz came in shortly after she did. _Nice vest, subtle black brocade_. He didn’t wear vests when he visited her downstairs, so there had to be something. She’d been made to dress up, to come upstairs. There had to be.

“You look calm.” It was the first thing he said. It surprised her, too.

“I’m still waiting for it all to sink in”, she said. Her voice was husky, sore from the pain. “I’m in no shape for a doctor visit”, she added, worried. _Pleased_. Worried. _Shards, still tingling in the bag, still broken_.

He sat next to her, but at a little distance, bent over to rest his elbows on his knees, hands entwined. He seemed preoccupied when he watched her. “Don Falcone agreed to come here instead of having you over at the manor. It’s not ideal, but right now you’re…”

“… Fragile. Yes”, she said, with a little smile. “I just feel really tired, honestly. I think I’m too exhausted to…” She trailed off, eyes lost on some random spot on the shelves, frowning. _The conditioning_. Couldn’t speak about it directly. “I feel it. _Inhale, exhale_ … But I’m just too tired for it.”

He was smiling. “That was articulate”, he said, which meant it wasn’t. “But we need you ready for the Boss. Do you think you can handle that?” There was no time for her to reply; a buzzing caused them both to raise heads in attention. It hadn’t come from a door. Some device he had on himself. _Insulated room? No sounds from outside_. He disappeared into a corridor, only to reappear with the Don. When Sam attempted to stand up from the sofa in greetings, she saw Zsasz freeze, but she managed without incidents. Going back down, though, that made her cringe. Everyone pretended they hadn’t noticed. It was considerate.

Carmine Falcone always managed to look reassuring, in some way, which she assumed could add a nightmarish edge to the way he took care of some of his business. He exchanged courtesies, treated Zsasz like he would a talented young man working for some well-oiled company. An old-fashioned company making money by the truckload, but in a subtle way, a polite way, not in your face like some of those young start-ups. _All true in a way_. The overthinking was getting out of hand, but it kept her from focusing on herself.

The Don inquired after her wellbeing. Asked whether Victor had _behaved_. His tone called for a good-natured chuckle, although she was certain the man could be devilish in his line of business. Reviewed with her the methods used during the interrogations, though he seemed aware that she couldn’t truly reply, just listen. Halfway through it, she finally felt hints of the obedient one reawakening. _You’re ruining it all, ruining it all, you’ve failed and now all that remains to you is dying, or warning him, finding some way to warn him so he can escape_ … She felt clammy, faint. It was getting hard to focus. Falcone managed put off mentions of her bruises for an admirable amount of time. The topic was inevitable, though. Drew too much of his attention.

“I am deeply sorry to hear you’ve had to go through that ordeal again. I was there, ten years ago, when you were recovering in the hospital, not much younger than my own daughter. It pains me to see you sporting those very same marks. It must feel like a nightmare relived,” Falcone said. A gloomy mood suddenly struck her, weighing on her stomach. Nausea. Head spinning. She was afraid even just opening her mouth would set the obedient one free. “But there are many reasons why I’ve forbidden the use of blades of any kind. Too much likelihood of scarring, too much risk of nerve damage. And Victor can sometimes get overzealous. Isn’t that so, young man?” The Don turned slightly towards Zsasz with a smile on his face. _Overzealous_. _Now, now_. Somehow it seemed like the main reason for this specific ban. “I’ve had to take the same path with the needles. I hope you’ll be understanding, Miss Baxter, especially now that the end is in sight.”

The obedient one took over, spoke out, and she paled. _Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. “But you’ve got everything you wanted to hear from me, now… I don’t- I don’t see the point in speaking any further of this. I just want it to be over. I just want to leave. I could leave, now, couldn’t I?” _That was weak, obedient one_. She knew what had to come next.

“Is that the sign you’ve mentioned, Victor? I see it. Appearing anytime the conditioning is suppressing something.” _Busted_. Zsasz answered with a nod and a ‘ _yes, Don Falcone_ ’, like a dutiful little soldier. She was shaking now. “I don’t think we’re quite done here, are we? You did mention you’d like to be an asset to me. The meeting is occurring the way it was intended to, and you’ll be leading it. In whatever fashion will suit your state of mind, once the moment arrives.” She saw Zsasz shift slightly on the sofa, stiffen. They both did. “Yes, Victor?” Attentive. Not impatient.

“She’ll be ready”, he said, almost blunt, almost a promise. The Don nodded slightly, thoughtful.

_I can’t. I can’t. I need to leave. I need to go._ As soon as she managed to share another glance with Zsasz, Sam brought her fingers to her neck, lips slightly parted as she tried her best not to let out a stream of desperate mutters. She could feel the obedient one struggle to remain on top, struggle to keep control. _A call for help._ “I need to…” Broken voice. _Broken mirror_.

“Yes”, he said. Nodded. “I believe Miss Baxter needs rest, Don Falcone. Might she take her leave?”

“Of course”, he conceded, with a smile. A bit tighter this time. _Worried? Disappointed? Offended?_ “I hope you will feel better soon, Miss Baxter. I look forward to seeing what you’re able to do on the night of the rendezvous.” _He’s giving us another chance_.

“Thank you. I’m sorry”, was all she could say, in a whisper, when she was ushered out, entrusted to another woman to take her back to the small room. A different one – brunette, a mole on her left cheekbone, didn’t look at her in the eyes. She spent too long staring at the wall, after that. She fell asleep.

* * *

 

It had happened again. She was trapped. Strapped to the metal restraints, she was forced to wait. The lights were too bright, every shadow reduced to a rounded pool of darkness. And it was too warm, enough to make her sweat in thick drops. Later, the heat had stabilized. She couldn’t find it in herself to cry about her sorry state. Eyes focused on the IV, she watched it go. Drop by drop.

She barely noticed when the door opened.

“We’re almost done, now”, she heard him say. _Zsasz_. “One last thing you need to tell me, then you’re free. You know, I was going to ask you how you want to go about this one, but… you can’t really answer me, can you? So we’re going with my idea.” There was some kind of echo now in the room, or maybe it was just her imagination. _Call it as it is. Hallucination_.

“How likely is it?” She was surprised by her own voice. _It’s all three of us now, isn’t it?_ The echo, if it really was there, made it sound that way. “That I’ll break in the process of…” She trailed off, bit her lip. _I don’t need to say it, he knows what I mean, doesn’t he?_

“There is… a chance”, he said, one hand on her shoulder, pressing her down to a sitting position as the restraints moved accordingly. To her, it felt like an old silent movie. Was she missing fragments of time, now? “We haven’t been trying to avoid it, if that’s what worries you. Cautiousness simply demanded I’d get all the information needed from you before we could try this.” Cautiousness bore the name of Carmine Falcone, she was ready to bet. “But I’ve said it before, Sam. You really should trust me by now.” He wasn’t smiling this time.

“I do”, she said, a mournful note in her voice. The rebellious one meant it. Maybe the third, as well – _hard to figure out whatever the fuck is going on there_.

“Good, then. There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about for a while, but, eh”, he said, walking away from her to sit in his usual spot. Was this going to be so easy? Just a talk? “We’ve been on a tight schedule. And I wasn’t sure you’d be quite ready for it. But you’re giving me the word today, it seems like the only good moment to get there.” _How casual he sounds_. Maybe too casual. _He knows what he’s risking if he missteps_.

“What did you want to talk about, then?” She blinked. She’d barely noticed him draping the cardigan over her legs again, until the heat began to build up.

“What gets through to you? Through your conditioning? Pain, of course, but not just any pain. A lot of what we’ve tried didn’t work out at all. Some of it is so tied to the conditioning I’ve been forced to avoid it. Which is a pity. I had half a dozen mixes of substances I could’ve injected in you, that could’ve been fun.” _Fun_. She had to give a tired smile at that. “I’m lucky that electrodes still put you in a state where I can get to you, with a little effort. But there’s… only two kinds of pain that _really_ get the good results from you. Ban’s lifted for today, you can say it.”

_Inhale, exhale; open your eyes_. “I don’t want to, I just want to leave, please, I’ve given you all I could…”

He shushed her, showed her his left hand. Fingertips pressed into the palm, harmlessly so. Trembling, as if trying to suppress it, she repeated the gesture, until she relaxed again, back to that toneless state.

“Cutting. And choking”, she said, faint. Not really understanding what she was saying until she saw him smile, and produce the folder once again. Pictures. The doctors had taken them to be shown in court. Her neck from various angles, the outline of a tear on her cheek. Her stomach on an operating table, the exposed wound. Small, but it went deep. In order to heal it, they’d had to make it bigger.

“Cutting and choking”, he repeated, satisfied with the spark of recognition in her eyes. “See, I’m pretty sure some kind of puncture wound would’ve worked out, as well. Like an ice pick. Screwdriver. Big needles, not so much. They did get your memory started, once… But for the very good stuff, for the stuff buried deep, that’s what it takes.”

She was surprised with her own lack of a reaction. Instead, she just stared, feeling empty, at the pictures he’d collected. “All the things that bring me back there”, she commented, frowning. Head tilted to see one from a better angle. “Back where I fought back.” She looked away, inhaled, eyes to the empty side of the room. _It had been an unusually hot summer night._ The heat came from the lamps, bright above her. “Are you going to drag the bed in here? Make me fall asleep, use a pillow?” _Early summer heat. Now it makes sense_.

Not hearing him answer right away, she turned towards him, only to find him frowning. “That’d be on a whole new level of creepy.”

That took her by surprise, somehow. _Limits. People tend to have those, even when the topic is the re-enactment of the night dad killed mom, almost killed me, and died instead._ The absurdity of the situation got to her; she couldn’t help it, broke into a genuine bout of laughter. “I’m sorry”, she muttered, voice still pasty with laughter. “I’m sorry. It’s just… A fine line, sometimes.”

He approached to kneel in front of her. “Well, better to have a sense of humour about it. Here we go”, he said, already lifting her to a standing position, then bent the structure, backwards this time, dragged her down. Not quite lying, suspended, reclined. White knit cardigan fallen to the floor, forgotten. Electrodes, she knew the spots by now, fought back weakly in the attempt to have them positioned in a less painful manner, but he didn’t give her room to ruin his handiwork. She felt resigned. _One or more of us fragments will die today. Sam, Sam, oh, Sam, how do you keep forgetting you’re just one?_ Even the rebellious one was far too weak to feel that bittersweet mix of fear and excitement, this time. But the conversation had called her to the surface. These conversations always seemed to, at some point. The lights went out, and she felt the urge to use that small bout of freedom.

“Victor… Can I call you Victor?” Her voice was trembling. Alarmed. It was so dark she couldn’t see anything. _A child strapped in securely to a fearsome rollercoaster_.

She heard him hesitate in the darkness. “Sure. What is it?” _Confused. Unsure what to expect_.

“I… I _do_ trust you, Victor.” Her head hung against the metal frame. Fresh metal, pleasant metal. There was a shifting, somewhere behind her. A jolt, a strangled sound from her. He’d started to set her muscles aflame, twist them and make them feel like they were about to tear. To curl onto themselves like snakes. Through it all, he reminded her of what he was after. The trigger word. But it seemed impossible to get to it. Someone had hidden it in one of the many folds of her brain and sown it in.

At some point, she actually encouraged him to seek there.

_Summer, early summer warmth_. But the sweating of only a little earlier made the silken romper stick to her body. Blood had done the same to her pyjamas, once. When she felt his voice move around her, she knew. _Come to me_ , the rebellious one had tried to say, but it had gotten lost in the sea of pain. _I can take it. We can end this. I can find it, if you can get me there. No matter what it takes_. One hand on her chest. It was hard to see. The other hand found its intended target while the first lagged behind a moment longer, then joined its companion. He was in front of her, having to bend in order to get to her throat, so she could feel his weight where his chest had pressed into her. “You know the word, Sam. You just have to remember”, he said. Calmly, this time. No need to rush it. They both knew where they were headed. Then he began to squeeze.

She allowed her eyes to focus onto nothing, until they tunnelled to the apex of darkness above her – the anonymous spot on the ceiling. She exhaled what little air she’d collected in her lungs, then his hands forbade it entrance. She began struggling almost immediately, followed a vital instinct, snarled, arched herself against him in a useless attempt to drive him away. Would’ve bitten him to the bone, had she had the chance. _But this is part of the game, too_. Her mind was deceived into the transition, led to an old place, a different time. She was on the bed. She wasn’t alone. The burglar, the monster above her. The monster who ground his teeth pressed harder, making her rasp in pain, demanded. “Say the word.” An order. Good girls obey orders. But she had no words for him, just silence.

Again. The monster squeezed air from her again. Her lungs uselessly tried to cling to it, then tried to expel it. Neither would happen. Red stars in her tunnel of darkness. “Remember the word”. There had been a monster who’d given her words. Many of them, but one was important, he’d said. _Not that you’d ever remember_.

_Do you know what’s going to happen to you, here, Samuela?_

_If you let me out now I won’t tell anyone. Just let me out. I swear, if you touch me I’ll…_

_Oh, doll. No, no, my dear, it’s not what you believe. Shhh, relax._

She gasped, wheezed helplessly. “ _It’s not what you believe_ ”, she repeated, in a small voice, but he recognized the tone of recollection. He didn’t interrupt it, he aided it, instead. In his own way. He aided it by squeezing her throat till she could barely keep her eyes open.

_The Greeks had a word for it. We’ve borrowed from them a lot, but I’ve always liked this one. I feel like we haven’t honoured it properly. We use it for the wrong composition, nowadays._

_What did you just…? It hurts. Doctor, it hurts, please, what’s going on?!_

_I’m here to split you into a few parts. So to speak. Two parts. Give one of them control. Control is underrated, Sam. Control is vital, if there’s anything we want to accomplish._

_… You’re crazy. You’re crazy, you should be locked up with us, you should…_

_Not crazy, doll. I have a purpose. And by splitting you, I’m making you the best tool I could ever ask for. So nicely observant, so clever. And you’ll be even better. Now, let’s see, has it reached your fingertips, yet? Perfect._

Back over the water surface. Back with another gift. Another pearl. Or just a piece of mud. “Splitting… you… by splitting you…”

“What was the word, Sam?”

“Splitting…”

A deep breath above her. It wasn’t her own. No more breathing for a while. Back to the monster.

_Fuck you, fuck you, I’m going to tell everyone about what you’re doing! I’m going to… just make it stop!_

_You know, you really should be more concerned about wording, Samuela. The word, remember? This is going to be very important to you, from now on. The Greeks had a word for it, one that I’m fond of. The Greeks called the act of splitting ‘skhizein’. That’s your word, my dear. And you’ll be hearing it a lot. Not that you’d ever remember._

Air rushed into her chest. Too fast. It bloated her lungs and they ached, they ached, she screamed out, hoarse, hoping it’d stop.

“The word, Sam. Give it to me.” Chest pressed against her stomach, between her legs. Hands still against her throat, gentle now, but ready to turn into a vice. She smiled as she breathed in, nearly chuckled.

“It’s skhizein”, she whispered. Like a secret. “ _Not that you’d ever remember_.” Her tone mocking, parroting Davis. The obedient one had shattered into dust. No need to worry about her pieces. She would not come back. She did not mourn her passing.

He lifted from her, one hand lingering on her neck, her cheek. “Say something. Something he would’ve stopped you from saying.”

“I want him dead”, she said, and laughed a broken laugh. It was liberating, to say it out loud, so much that she’d cry, if she only had the strength to. “I want him to suffer for… every minute I’ve suffered under his control.”

She felt him pause, breathe heavily. She thought she was the only one panting. Again, he bent over her to whisper in her ear, and for a moment she imagined something carnal. She could’ve been forgiven for that. Between their breathing, and the sweat, and their closeness, it felt like they’d just shared more than a simple interrogation. _But we have_. “My turn, then. Remember your trigger word. The other word. You’re allowed.”

“ _Silvaplana_ ”, she whispered, and shivered in relief. The third had faded, too, without a fuss.

He’d hurried away from her, to ensure her safety, no doubts. The light had been painful, after all that darkness. His hands had felt pleasant, comforting, but nothing could’ve been compared to what had just occurred. She felt drugged once again. Probably wasn’t. When he brought her back to the little bed, carrying her form in his arms, he didn’t stand from the corner he’d taken while setting her down. Not right away. She managed to whisper a ‘ _thank you’_ before falling asleep. _I am one_.

* * *

 

She was sitting in the parlour she’d been brought to the first time around. _How long ago? A few weeks?_ A rush of energy in her, and nowhere to direct it to. She would’ve liked to do so many things. Her body wasn’t quite recovered yet, wouldn’t be for a while, but she felt renewed. One.

_I feel like I’m full of holes, though, where the shards have been. Holes to fill. I’ll figure it out_.

It was Zsasz who entered the room first, to stand a few paces behind her. She knew him by his breathing by now. Odd how something as twisted as torture could feature a degree of intimacy in its own right. Don Falcone came in less than a minute afterwards. Again, she stood to greet him. Her body hurt, but she didn’t feel faint. She smiled at him, a triumphant smile, but then realized what had slipped, held it in. _Be respectable. Be reassuring_. It seemed proper.

“You seem to be in much better spirits today, Miss Baxter”, he said, and sat down. Cued her to do the same. “Victor told me about your recovery. I wish to thank you both for your efforts.” Both of them thanked him in return, slightly out of sync with each other. It seemed like she was learning, already. “This outcome is no doubts preferable to the alternatives. Now all that’s left for us to do is wait until tomorrow night. How are you feeling?” _Is that concern?_

Her lips pressed hard against each other, she steeled herself to answer. “Better. I feel ready”, she said. Smoothed her skirt on her thighs, almost without realizing. “Still a bit worn out, of course, but I have no doubts that won’t be a concern. I haven’t been able to send out warnings while I was still under his influence, so Davis should expect nothing.”

“Good, good”, the Don said, calm as a stone amidst the frantic waves of her impatience. Too calm. That made her shoulders tighten a slight bit. “About that, Miss Baxter… I hear you’ve expressed the intention to take your revenge against that man. I am sorry to say, though, that won’t be possible. We need him alive to figure out who’s holding his strings. Surely you understand that?”

“Alive”, she repeated. Bitter in her mouth. She attempted to maintain a neutral stare, her hands balled up into fists against her thighs. _Smooth it down, hold it in_. “Of course. I understand.” She hadn’t considered that. How foolish of her not to. The plan progressed, and she struggled to keep up, still reeling from that simple word.

She was given a script, based on what she’d shared during the interrogations. Things to say, details to share. They’d be covertly observed. She didn’t doubt that it could be done subtly. She was meant to continue playing into the doctor’s hands, to pretend to still be under his control and feed information to him like a good little double crosser. _I can handle that. Lying to shrinks is the first thing you learn when you get into a mental institution for something like killing your father_. It didn’t please her, but she could see the big picture.

That was the rational side of her. There was a little something more, a little something that was going fucking ballistics. _Hold it. Smooth it down. You’ve done it for years, you can keep doing it for as long as it takes for this bastard to get a little too comfortable_.

“There is, of course, a chance that things may to go south. Agents will be near, ready to assist you in a moment’s notice – if you do have to defend yourself in the meantime, I ask that you do so without employing lethal force. Can you do that, Miss Baxter?” A warm look in his eyes, a note of concern in his voice. A dignified plea. An underlying message. _‘We rely on you’_. He was good. Good enough to look at while taking notes. “I understand if that’s too much for you. It could be dangerous, and force you into an unpleasant position. If you’d rather back out, we can always take a different approach, but…”

He’d trailed off in a way that made it seem polite to finish his sentence. “… I asked to be an asset. I will be. I’ll follow the plan, Don Falcone.” _He’s given me an out – in case things go south…_ But it wasn’t in her self-interest for things to go south. “Thank you for this opportunity.”

It took a while. Re-reading the script, learning it by heart, making it sound convincing, remembering all the little gestures of compliance that her conditioning required. For most of the afternoon she was left alone, but the Don came back periodically to check on her. She set her teeth upon the anger she felt, focused on making the plan work. If it did – well, she might’ve just bought her way out of mind control and into the mob. Perhaps into the Don’s credit, even.

Zsasz reappeared a few hours after sunset, lingered in the room during one of Falcone’s visits to check on her progresses, then lagged behind, a silent presence for a few, long seconds. “You won’t make trouble, will you, Sam?”

She smiled to herself, deep into the papers. “I’m sticking to the plan. I have some impulse control.”

“That’s good”, he said, and the firmness of his tone had her turn from the sheets. “Would be a pity to be forced to undo all of that work we’ve done on you.”

All in all, she wasn’t too surprised. Her lips still curved into a smile, she observed him for a second longer, letting the afterimage of the stark, tall shape of him framed by dark wood and shadows settle in her mind. “And I know you wouldn’t hesitate. But I won’t mess it up for the sake of some quick satisfaction. There’s someone out there who ordered this, and I want to know who. I promise I won’t be making trouble.”

She heard his breathing grow the slightest bit deeper behind her. “We’ll see, then”, he said. Took a few steps forward, but remained at a small distance from her, enough not to touch. _Aren’t you good at separating business from torture?_ “In case things _do_ go south, though, do you know what to do?” He pressed a knife into her hand. Small, flat holster. Discreet. Something to be worn at the thigh, maybe.

She pulled out the blade, to take in the pools of light reflected in it. Small, thin. Would shatter against bone. Sharp, though. Inconspicuous, but could go deep enough. “I’m guessing I’d go for the gut. Easiest target. Then back out, leave it to whoever’s there for it. That kind of damage should be nonlethal if tended to, right?”

He just nodded, eyes fixed on her hands, on the way she touched the blade. “I have places to be, but show me one thing, before I go. Something the conditioning would forbid. Just to be sure.”

She understood what he meant right away. Despite herself, inhaled as a shiver ran down her spine, not entirely unpleasant. The defiance of the act intrigued her, more than anything else. She’d been kept safe and away from blades for years. “Right here? The carpet would…”

“Just something quick. Something to be sure. We won’t let blood touch the ground.” There was a little fervour in his voice. Like he needed to be certain she wouldn’t hesitate in front of Davis. _Is he doubting his results? Doubting me? Or is this just for kicks? But what if it didn’t fully work, what if I can’t follow the plan?_ Meanwhile, Zsasz dangled the possibility of rebellion over her like food over a starved man. She couldn’t pass it up.

She pushed her left sleeve up to the middle of her forearm. Half-commitment. _Just this once. Just to be sure I’m free_. Pushed an adhesive bandage away from where she’d hurt herself with the restraints and held her breath, then drew a crescent moon shape with the knife right above the irregular sign of struggle. It felt liberating. She hissed as she felt the sting of it, looked him in the eye, and grinned, let him be the one to push the bandage back, to fill and swell with a blood red flower. It was a superficial wound. Barely more than a scratch. A flat scar for a year, at most, then no more. “It’s me. Only me. I won’t mess it up.”

He nodded, staring down towards his own hand. Seemed a little bit intense, for a moment. She only noticed after he’d already started speaking – his fingertip was stained with her blood. “Good. I trust you.” An echo of what she’d said to him. Like a courtesy. Then he left.

She didn’t see him for the rest of the night. Her guest bedroom was lovely, in a timeless way, but a tremor took her as she set herself down on the bed, and she had to push the pillows to the side, turn her back to them so she couldn’t see or feel them. Only then she was able to fall asleep.

* * *

 

Low heels clacked softly on the empty asphalt. The obedient one would’ve held them in her hand inside the manor, then worn them outside, and so she had. Lilac dress – the reassuring one, the one that made her think of mom on church day, mom in the sunlight with pearls and pink lipstick. Gloves, white. She’d had to change the bandage so the blood wouldn’t stain them, and it slightly saddened her. That red flower of freedom thrown away. Meanwhile, she’d found she’d never see the stitches that had been on her palm. They’d been removed, leaving behind another scar.

It was a deep summer night in Gotham, which still meant a chill was swirling through the buildings in a whiff of fresh wind, making her wish she’d brought a light coat. The breeze seemed to chase her amidst pools of tepid, damp air, marked by the absence of cold rather than by the presence of warmth. It was not a forgiving city. Alone, she made for an ideal target, but the roads had been chosen well, and she wasn’t afraid. Hidden beneath her skirt was that flash of silver she could split a throat open with. _Not the throat. The gut. Go for the gut if it gets bad._ That mess would be easier to fix.

Endsbury Park appeared as a splotch of vaguely green darkness. She found herself wondering where Falcone’s men had hidden. Where had Doctor Davis come in from? Was he already waiting for her? _It’s the devil’s hour_. It seemed fitting. She was at the gates, now, and in the darkness the greenery seemed like a fairy tale barrier, one to fight through, or to break a curse to overcome. Davis had chosen well. As she made her way towards the abandoned lodge – _the backdoor’s broken and will open for me_ – she clung to the illusion of a fairy tale. Little Sam, in her prim lilac dress, wearing a doll’s innocence on her lowered eyelids. On and on, walking towards the wolf’s abode. Ready to spin a tale that would lull him into the hunter’s grasp.

She wrapped the scarf tighter about her as she walked in, and found she wouldn’t have to wait, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness inside. He was waiting, his back to her – on purpose, his back was always to her when she visited him. Like he was always busy with something more important than she was. _Rude little shit_. “I’ve been the eyes and ears”, she whispered, but it still sounded loud and clear in the empty night air of that side of the city. Midtown would’ve been a different story altogether. She wondered whether he felt ridiculous, with all those cult-like code phrases and rituals of his. _Or maybe it makes the conditioning easier_. No, he enjoyed it. He was always pretentious.

“It’s good to have you back, Samuela. Do tell me all you’ve seen.” He turned around. Smiled at her that good-natured smile of his. It caused something in her to twist with rage, but she kept it hidden. Smoothed it down.

_Unimportant_. She kept her eyes low as she spoke – _not the eyes, right now, not the ears, just the mouth_. She spun her tale of little details, little movements, little victories, all fake. Not having to look up at him made it even easier to lie. In fact, she was a bit proud. With white-gloved hands joined in front of her lap, she was the very picture of an obedient puppet. Davis walked around her, circled her, took in his creation.

“Tell me, dear, have you taken the train, by chance?”

She froze for a fraction of a second, confused. What was that? A code? _I can’t remember that one_. She turned her hesitation on its heels, looked up. _Big eyes. Empty doll eyes. Try something, say something, anything_. “No.” That could work as well as anything else. It probably wouldn’t, though.

“That is… a real pity, Samuela”, he said. He even added a little chuckle to the end, resigned. A kindly, disappointed father. “I knew I couldn’t trust you to kill yourself, had things gone awry. You’ve always been a fighter, haven’t you? So I left a little something you’d be utterly unable to recall, a conditioned response to a code-phrase. The real fail-safe, just in case. And it seems you got yourself found out, somehow. Such a tremendous pity”, he repeated, taking steps towards her. She inhaled, a hiss in the silence, remained still. “Tell me, did you overplay the foster daughter angle? Were you found sneaking into his office? What gave you away?” Of course, he couldn’t accept it having been a failure of his – it had to have been her fault for it to make sense to him. _Your true masterpiece was making me forget how much I hated you_.

Davis was finally at a spot where she’d have to act fast, or lose the chance to. He moved a hand underneath his jacket – _a gun?_ She felt frozen. Was she still able to move, to act? Sam was close to panic, but she soothed it, the world slowing down as she did. _Smooth it out, let it fade_. For his benefit and no one else’s, she turned her doll-eyed stare into a sharp smile, a radiant smile. A harmless little thing, prim, proper, reassuring, with pearls and poisoned, sharp fangs underneath painted lips. The sight made him hesitate, gave her the half-second she needed to act. “A butter knife, actually”, she said, as she slipped one hand beneath her skirt and lashed forward, dug the blade into his gut, then in the hand beneath the jacket. His momentary shock allowed her to stumble away into the darkness of the ruined lodge.

A couple of thunderous snaps echoed, enveloped her from all sides, and the doctor was down on the ground, giving out pained sounds she’d secretly wished to hear for years. It had felt glorious, rich, stabbing him – but somehow, the whole ordeal had only awakened her hunger. She felt unsated. Then, ungrateful; she wasn’t supposed to get that chance at all, she should be thankful.

_The bastard did defeat me after all._

She had some trouble recollecting how it had happened, afterwards, but she’d been taken back to the manor. Don Falcone had been outside for most of the evening, and when he appeared she could feel the tension in him. _Steeling himself for a failure_. He seemed remarkably calm, though.

A man with a beard and short hair, dressed in black, had reported to him. One of those hidden outside of the lodge, one of those who’d shot. Zsasz had remained silent, the tightness in his pose indicating he hadn’t failed to catch the mood within the room. Maybe he’d be blamed for it. Maybe she would.

“Would you tell me more, Miss Baxter? What happened in there?” Courteous, but brisk. She made sure to reply as quickly and as clearly as she could.

“Doctor Davis seems to have implanted a fail-safe in my conditioning. A code-phrase. One I would have no recollection of, that I would only be able to respond to should I remain under his grasp. I’m sorry, Don Falcone, I wish I’d managed to remember”, she said. _Stand still, be earnest and apologetic, but determined, show no weakness and no smugness._ Either one could set a man off.

“Victor?”

“It was like Miss Baxter said, a hidden code-phrase. It’s not something I’ve ever seen done successfully. I humbly apologize for my failure.” Hand to his heart, bowed down head. It could’ve come out as sycophantic; instead, it was just slightly unnatural, just a little overdramatic, like nearly everything he said. Don Falcone examined him, then her. There was a long pause. Then, he nodded, and she realized she’d held her breath.

“Let it go, young man”, Don Falcone sighed, his posture slackening just slightly. “We do have the man in our custody, at least, and he’ll talk. Whoever’s been acting out these past few weeks may have finally overplayed his hand. Miss Baxter”, he said, turned to face her. He didn’t seem cold, or angry. Just tired. “Do take some rest. I’ll have someone get clean clothes for you. Would you be so kind as to accompany the lady to her room, Victor?”

“Of course.”

Only then she noticed the front of her dress now sported a few sparse splatters of blood. The droplets had expanded on the fabric; from afar, they’d look like a tacky flower motif. The gloves had been stained, and the scarf, as well. _Not so reassuring, now._

She walked slowly next to the man by her side, eyes low, still stealing glances of her own dress. The manor was hardly the place for conversation, but she felt the need to say something out loud. “I’m sorry. I hope that mess doesn’t cause too much trouble for you.” She made a grimace. “Or me.”

“The Boss will understand. Don’t fret about it”, he said, then tilted his head towards her. “How was that? Stabbing your doctor?”

She had to sigh, and shrugged. “Good, but not as good as I’d hoped. Too little, too fast. And he did outplay me in the end. That took some pleasure out of it.” She was at the door, now – heard him stop a few paces away, ready to leave. Something came to mind, and she paused. “Victor?”

That caught his attention. He stared, questioning, still, but said nothing.

She made it sound nonchalant, almost like an afterthought. Like asking someone to pick up some bread on their way home. “Do you think you could give him a few good shocks for me, if you ever get to it? Make it painful?”

His lips twisted into a wide smirk, a delighted one. She’d taken him by surprise, but he was more than willing to play along. “Just a few shocks? I could throw in something more, while I’m there.”

She felt her own lips tug into a smile, the mirrored image of the one she’d given Davis less than a couple hours before. “Maybe take a few fingers, too. Or all of them. Oh, I don’t want to be greedy”, she trailed off, looked down as if bashful, but glanced up at him through lowered eyelashes.

Smile still in place, he bowed down slightly. Hand to his chest, eyes fixed on her. “It would be my pleasure.” _That’s enough playing_. They gave each other a final glance, before turning to go on their own way.

When she returned to her bed, the pillows still neatly pushed out of sight and mind, she couldn’t rip the smile off her lips for a while.


	5. A grasping hand reaches out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for detailed, grisly imagery. Basically, gore.
> 
> Again, this got longer than expected, and would've been even longer if I hadn't forced myself to rein it in. There's about a dozen plot threads I'm itching to introduce, and I'm trying to pace myself. A huge thank you to all of those who felt like leaving me a comment or some kudos. Sometimes a kind comment is all it takes to get you from stuck to done, and that means the world to me.

She could see the city open its eyes at night. Dozens of little dots of light came into view, masked the sofa’s dull lilac velvet with yellow and blue, green and purple. The windows reflected on the living room’s table wore a mirror maze’s bloated flatness. On her arm, faded neon reflections, like a tattoo. The noise was harsh by day, but by night, with the radio on, it blended into the soothing night-time jazz routines.

 _Adjustment takes time_. She felt she’d heard that sentence a thousand times. The first few days spent living on her own had been a dizzying experience, though Sam wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected. Many years before she’d caught herself imagining a return to the old family mansion. Well kept, airy, luminous. The awe had lasted a second, then turned to horror. She’d made a vow she’d never touch that thought again, an iron taste alerting her to the strength with which she’d bit down on her lip.

Slowly, she’d grown partially accustomed to the spaces of her new home. The bulk of each piece of furniture, the quiet. The particular shade of a lamp. The spaces had started to hold something different than emptiness. _Possibilities_. With that thought, came the word _possession_ , shy and unbidden, but not unwelcome. Though a gift unearned, the apartment was hers: one last trickle of her grim inheritance. _My last allowance, and off I go into the world_. The first job offer had followed on its tail. By that time, Sam had wised up – she knew there were eyes on her.

First of all, those of the Don himself. For a couple days, she’d foolishly dismissed the idea. Thought the botched meeting with Davis was as good as forgiven. Then came the feeling of being observed, a constant, weightless sensation she knew better than to ignore. His eyes followed her. And if not his, well, he certainly had plenty he could borrow. Each following conversation with Falcone had left her feeling weighted. _Like whatever trust he has in me has merely been written in pencil_. _No commitment_. Not unexpected. Not unwise, either. She had Davis to thank for that. _Add it to the list_.

There were the other Bosses, as well. Whole families waiting to see what the renegade child’s next step would be. She was, after all, her father’s daughter. No amount of “I murdered him by stabbing him in the throat with scissors” could erase that, or their expectations. In fact, his tragic end, her doubly so beginning, her long disappearance, her time spent in a mental facility… they added something juicy to the morsel that her presence in the city was. She needed to be evaluated, as a potential threat or a potential asset. Unseen, they watched. It mattered little whether it was as a diversion, or out of genuine interest.

And then there was Salvador Morales. Boss of what little was left of her father’s once vast family. _What do you do when the rightful heiress to your throne returns_? Bullets were only one potential solution; an easy, brash one. No doubts there were many others, and none of them left unconsidered. But he was handling it with caution. He followed his leader’s cue.

* * *

 

Her first job offer had come from none other than Salvador Morales, whose wary attention she had repaid point by point through their first encounter. Early to mid-fifties, grey hair cropped in a smart hairstyle, well-groomed moustache. Thorny vines peeking out of his collar on the inked skin of his neck. Would sometimes slip a wedding ring off mid-conversation, notice it a minute later, slide it back home in a haste. Light, tasteful cologne. _Could have a spot in the big leagues, lying-wise_. She hadn’t taken his overt friendliness personally – something watchful slipped every now and then. _Tension? Mistrust?_ Pained frustration over her inexperience, too, but that was a given. She was still learning. In between a smile and a nod, she’d decided it’d be safer to let him baby her, when so inclined. It kept him nervous rather than alarmed, and that would work out better in the long run.

They’d met, of course, under the eye and guidance of Carmine Falcone, who’d taken steps to make her feel at ease through her first introduction. He acted benevolent, a gracious benefactor standing by the side of his latest protégé. His gaze heavy on her. Her every move dissected, studied.

She’d done her best to pretend not to notice.

There was this place in need of management, Morales had told her. Just something simple, to get her started back into the family, maybe let her show that she could make a profit. Not a laundering operation, oh no. The tattooed man hadn’t said it out loud, but Sam suspected he thought her too green to let her delve into something like that. This place, it had gone from cabaret hall, to movie theatre, to a blend of both; and it had managed to fail at least twice within the last fifteen years, and changed its name three times as many. Its only constant was its hidden function: to provide a guarantee of privacy, for conversation too sensitive to be aired in the open. People did not come for the shows. They came for the talks, and the assurance that they would stay unheard. The private boxes were built with that specific goal in mind, the whole outer layer of corridors and staircases crafted to drive anyone not focused on finding their own way into utter confusion. The back entrance was cleverly placed, as well. Everything came down to a single rule: privacy. The only time the place had attracted the law’s attention had been over twenty years before, and it had since been renovated a few times. Everything about it indicated that it would be easy enough to settle for keeping the business just barely afloat. It could work out for years, even. Then, it would sink under the slightest stress. Rinse and repeat.

 _Which sounds like a colossal waste_. The place was unpolished, but there was cunning and craft behind it. Parts of it reminded her of a funfair’s haunted house. Labyrinthine. Dramatic, in a way. Sam feared the miracle would not continue to repeat itself: at some point, the lack of a legitimate, consistent source of profit would compromise the business sooner than it would sink it. _Worse than compromise it_. It would make people rethink what they’d seen in there, it would make people doubt. It would make them want to pry. As Salvador Morales and Carmine Falcone walked her through it, she found herself frowning. Imagining. Rebuilding. She calmly asked for terms, and any contacts needed to run this kind of operation. Ears attentive, her eyes darted from one side to the other, found focus for no longer than a second at a time, moved on to the next sight.

Unlike her home, this place immediately felt like something to be moulded. It sat grave, only half-real, the scent of dust whiffing from room to room, a masterpiece to be rebuilt from stone and flotsam. She named it in her mind, the way she would name a lost hatchling. _Vespertide_. Her whole being was already focused on how to make it flourish. How to rearrange. How to breathe a soul into it. Don Falcone had left early, but she stuck around for a few hours afterwards. She wanted to know as much as she needed to, squeezed every moment until Morales offered to accompany her home. She spent the ride in forced stillness. Impatient for more.

As her apartment came into view, she was struck by a thought. That place had something her new home did not. Something she’d wanted, in secret, and had failed to find elsewhere. That dusty wreck had left its talons in her, and even now, away from it, Sam could still feel the pull of them.

* * *

 

Sam crossed the threshold, inhaled scents unfamiliar. It made the contrast grow even starker. The same chill from outside lingered indoors. She turned the lights on, left them behind, not a glance spared; heels dropped loud in the airy living room, she made her way to the desk, one hand darting to fill the emptiness with the radio’s creaky sounds. She sat. She dropped a stack of papers, and paused for a second, jacket still on.

It was too late for sleep, too early for rationality. In front of her were blueprints, documents, reminders. Things to be studied. Filled with half-birthed thoughts, she knew she would not rest until she saw them born. A pen, cold in her fingers, rushed to draw a circle of ink around a phone number. A gust of air from the window behind her accompanied a realization, _an area in those blueprints just doesn’t seem right_ , a whispered curse was followed by a faint impression of movement. _Movement_. Footsteps. Behind her. She went still. Her heartbeat fast. Annoyance at her own shock. She knew better, by then.

“Love what you’ve done with the place”, said a voice far too familiar. A shiver followed it. “I hope you won’t mind that I helped myself. You… _really_ did take a while out there.”

 _Cold blood, now. Keep calm_. “Please, do make yourself at home”, she said. Forced politeness, sharp through a clenched smile. She turned around, unsurprised to find Victor inside the room. He’d pilfered a few cookies from her cupboards, which added to the insult of seeing what she’d assumed would be her haven – her home – invaded. _And somehow I didn’t notice. Not until he made himself known_. “I just got home from a _job interview_ , I’m sure you know. Is there anything I can do to help you?” She didn’t stand, her hand pressed flat upon the desk. Fingers wide, neck tense. As welcoming as an animal cornered in its own nest.

“No need. I’m here as a courtesy”, he said, the last word made vague with a gesture of his gloved right hand. Neon lights reflected on the leather from the wide, open window. Step by leisurely step, he strolled closer. “See, we’ve had Davis for a few days now. Only just getting to the fun parts. But we just got news of…” He shrugged, sought the word. “Certain developments, which the Boss decided you should be informed of right away. I figured I should be the one to tell you.”

 _Developments_. Sam nodded, silent. She didn’t follow his hand when it moved past her shoulder to place the bag of cookies on the desk. Her eyes stayed on his face, starved for information.

“Those are good, by the way. Either way, that guy, he confirmed what you’ve been telling us about the fail-safe code. Seems to believe it, too. So… don’t quote me on this, Sam, but I think you’re closer to being off the hook.” He winked, and moved to grab a chair nearby. She made an attempt to stand up herself, but he merely gestured down, a near-soothing movement. That sight chilled her even more than his sudden appearance did. _Red flag_. She’d never gotten any good news from anyone insisting that she should sit down. _Something’s wrong_. Sam remained seated, kept herself on the edge of alarm, did not plunge into it.

“So I _was_ on the hook. Good to know for sure”, she said, and dropped the façade of false courtesy in favour of something more comfortable. Lips pressed tight, her fingers tapped a rhythm into the desk’s wood. “You know, I can tell when I’m being studied. Last few days? I’ve spent them trying to ignore how closely I was being analysed. I could tell. But you’d told me not to worry. That he’d understand.”

“Ah, Sam.” Half a smile, sleek figure bent slightly towards her. “Just thought I’d let you sleep a little tighter. But, really, you must’ve expected that mess to make people wonder. Whether you can follow instructions, where your loyalties lie… and so on.” There was a measured quality to his movements. _Feels like he might draw a gun on me at any second_. Not that she thought he would, not without reason, but perhaps the display was utterly deliberate.

She exhaled, slow, head lolling to one side. Again refused to let her nerves take charge of her. Shifted just barely in his direction, stocking-clad feet lifted upon the swivel chair’s leg to rub against each other. The bare pavement was too cold. Tension nagged at her shoulder blades. “I thought it might. Hoped that it wouldn’t, though. You do know that I meant to follow the plan, though, right?” She asked, almost not daring to. Immediately regretted the display of weakness, tried to harden her gaze. _Never beg for people to believe in you. Not even silently._ It rarely brought results, she’d found.

His response took a few seconds to come, and the pause allowed her to sink into uncertainty. “I don’t _know_ , but I _think_ so”, he said. Eyes fixed stubborn into hers, seeking. “I trust what I saw – I trust you’re not under his conditioning anymore. I trust you’ve told me all you remembered about the codes you’d have to use during the meetings. I may or may not have implied we’d let you get your hands on him, so it’s not like you had any reason to lie back then, right? See, I tend to do good work. Never had any complaints.” His gaze turned steely. “But that’s not all that I specialize on, and I gather this guy had the bulge when it comes to messing with the human brain. It’s kind of a pain to admit when you’ve been outplayed…” He cringed, dove his hand into the bag of cookies again, examined the one he’d fished out. Then, he shrugged, tension dissipated. “But it makes sense. I don’t think you were out for trouble that one night”, he grinned, took a bite. “You sure did welcome it, though.”

“You know I had no choice”, she reminded him. Eyebrow raised, a lingering smile on her lips, uninvited. And yet, what he’d said was a long way from the words they’d shared only a few days before. _I trust you_. _Is that what I wanted to hear? God, Sam, snap the fuck out of it, you’re inches away from a bullet if that’s what he’s here for_. “But you said developments. Plural.”

A few moments of silence bloated amidst the low radio tunes and faint sounds from the road. Sam tried to strangle a budding hint of hope, but it reached through her eyes; she was aware of it, perhaps more than he was. For a second, she thought she saw tension building in him. Hope turned to alarm, then resignation. _Of course, of fucking course. It never pays to expect something good_.

“You’re not gonna like this”, he said, but his voice did not waver. “Doctor Davis left us due to a sudden and lethal case of lead poisoning. To the head. Nothing could be done.” Sam felt frozen, cold. _Someone executed him_. Saw a slight twitch in his jaw, heard stiffness in some words, as if coming from behind clenched teeth. _He did not like this either. It wasn’t planned_. Or rather, it was. But not by Don Falcone.

“His employers terminated him before he could talk”, she concluded. He shrugged, mouthed a flat ‘ _likely_ ’, and she inhaled sharply. Fingers scraped against the desk’s surface, nails still too short to apply anything but pressure. _I can’t breathe. Can’t breathe_. There was a muffled twisting in her insides. Helpless fire in her head. Hands balled into fists. Something built up inside her, like a growl, like snarling, but stayed muted. She wasn’t sure how to name the feeling. _Anger_. Anger at its core, but overbearing, different.

“Big disappointment for us all. We lost a couple men. There was punishment to be dished out for some of the rest, you can probably imagine. There’s someone else on the trail, now. In any case, I think that’s why you’re not entirely off the hook just yet. This thing went sideways twice already. I think the Boss isn’t too happy with that.” There was a brief pause. Sam didn’t look at him. “If I may offer my advice…?”

“That’d be appreciated.” Sam spoke, brisk, unfocused. Her mind still whirred with shock.

“If I were in your place, I’d stick to what I know I can do well. I take it you have a job lined up, but maybe don’t forget about your other skills. If you get what I mean. Keep your eyes open for anything out of place. Let the Boss know if someone approaches you with… whatever they approach you with. Maybe pay extra attention to those you’re working closely to.” He saw her raise an eyebrow, and smirked down at her from his vantage point. “Well, you know about this better than I do.”

She shrugged. _That wasn’t advice, that was an order_. “Yes, I… I get it. Someone went through a lot of trouble to get me ready for this. They’re bound to act again, sooner or later. Make little ripples, maybe even a big mistake. If I were to spot something important, it’d mean I helped clean up the mess instead of just being a part of it. Seems fair enough to me.”

“So glad you feel that way”, he said. Despite his jovial manner, something in his stare confirmed what she’d assumed. This was no friendly advice. “Now, I’d stay and enjoy more of your hospitality, but I really must get going. Before I do though”, he paused, and gestured towards the fridge, visible beyond the kitchen’s empty doorframe. _The fridge?_ She stared, baffled. “Please, open up. Let’s call this a late housewarming gift.”

Sam frowned, feeling coiled up, unbalanced. One shaky step towards the fridge, and she knew what it had to be. Three more steps, quick. She opened the fridge’s door. _Like tearing out a plaster_. She knew, she knew, she already knew.

Inside now sat a tidy little plastic bag. Sad, transparent. Sealed with care. Seated with care to draw attention. _As if one could ever miss the severed fingers lying inside it._ Four of them, like stiff, swollen little worms. Clipped neat at the last knuckle, a few drops of blood the only hint at the pain caused by their loss. A part of her thought she should recoil in horror. At the very least, the sight was grisly. Much of her, though, was stunned into silence. Warm satisfaction spread tar-like through her stomach. She couldn’t tear her eyes away. Sam took a long, shaky breath, chest heaving. Only the thought of the doctor’s execution took away from that feeling.

“How thoughtful”, Sam said, too dazed to affect a coquettish tone. She dared to reach out, grabbed at the very top of the bag. Next to her own, the fingers actually looked large. _The doctor’s hands always looked big when he restrained me, when he injected something in me_. She’d never seen something like this, not up close. Her father’s corpse had been so intact. This looked wrong. Utterly wrong. _I did ask for it. I asked for it_. “I… You actually did that, I’m…” _Speechless? I’ll say._ She trailed off, turned around.

He wore a self-satisfied smile, now. _Like he expects praise_. “I wasn’t sure which ones you wanted, and I couldn’t take them all, so I had to compromise. I know there’s that whole matter with him being dead right now, but… I hope it’s still fine? I mean, he did scream a lot. That was kind of the point.” His tone shifted from playful, to cautious, to lively once again. Sam’s lips tugged into a smile.

“It’s… not fine, it’s perfect. Thank you so much, Victor”, she said, finally able to recover the playful tone from a few nights before. _What on Earth am I ever going to do with fingers?! Fingers!_ Somehow, the thought made her openly chuckle in disbelief. Sam dared to reach out once again, this time to grab the young man’s arm in a friendly gesture. She stopped short of doing anything else, her thoughts a jumbled mess. It was hard not to get distracted by the way the fingers rolled against each other. Their weight shifted whenever she moved.

“I’m glad you like it.” He placed his hand on hers to briefly touch it in acknowledgement, leather smooth against her skin, soft. Sam still felt dazed when he took a step backwards, and she brought her hand down. Seated it neat next the other, to worry at the bag. “Time to go now, but I’ll keep in touch. And thanks for the hospitality.” He started to leave the room as he spoke, his parting words punctuated by the rustling sound of the bag of cookies. _Never would’ve guessed him for a sweet tooth_. She didn’t follow him outside. Just stood in the middle of the kitchen, lifted the grisly trophy to examine it more closely.

The bag could not conceal the fingers’ dangling. Their weight felt tangible, in a way she was sure would’ve caused a weaker person to feel faint. Sam frowned, shifted her grip to the contents of the plastic bag. She felt odd. Detached. As if her thoughts were all crammed into a single spot, unable to seep out in anything but weak trickles, brisk surges of steam. There was the sinking feeling granted by the knowledge that she was still being tested, and perhaps she always would be. The suffocating emptiness of independence, the alien spaces of a place she was supposed to call her own. _A place violated, now, and I don’t even want to know how he comes in or out_. The daunting challenges ahead of her. One and the other. Vespertide, already a familiar voice, beckoning from the ruins of what could be a masterpiece as easily as it could turn into failure. And the other task, the unofficial task, the mirror image of what she’d been sent to do in the first place. The death of Doctor Davis, ironic, sudden, muzzling him into a useless corpse. The anger, the helplessness that rioted beneath the surface of her. The horrid, intense thrill of being gifted the fingers of the man she’d wanted dead. Now that she stared more closely, one appeared to have been partially degloved before it was snipped away, the task interrupted at the knuckle, the skin carefully drawn back, loose.

_Fingers, fingers, fingers. Now what to do with them?_

* * *

 

She’d had to prioritize.

The fingers could not stay. A morbid part of her had wondered whether they’d fit into a floral arrangement. For all her hatred of Davis, though, she felt she wasn’t quite there yet. Not in terms of derangement at least. She considered smashing them to bits with a hammer, or sticking them into a blender, but decided against it. She’d have to clean up afterwards, and the mere thought was exhausting. Resigned, Sam finally settled on boiling the flesh off of them, and figuring a way to crush the resulting bones into something she could easily get rid of. The smell actually succeeded in nauseating her, but she stuck to the plan, saw it to its end, and destroyed what was left of the trophy.

_It’s the thought that counts, after all. That, and knowing the bastard was in pain when they were cut off._

That took care of the fingers, and of a fraction of the anger. She used the rest as fuel for her new tasks. Attempted to forget about the rest. Learning how to manage a business was, after all, an engrossing task. Keeping an eye on those around her? Doubly so.

Both excellent excuses not to finish the half-written letter that sat on her desk, addressed to a Carolina Beckwith. _Little Caro, now a stranger._ It wasn’t like she’d ever attempted to stay in touch, anyway.

The thought of it never stopped nagging at her nonetheless.

* * *

 

“ _Vigilante Known As ‘The Balloon Man’ Taken Into Custody_ ”. Coffee bitter in her mouth, Sam thought the headline almost sounded mournful. She’d spent the last few weeks focused on turning Vespertide into a worthy enterprise. It had been a while since she’d last paid proper attention to the latest news: but it was hard not to take notice when a weirdo with weather balloons would go around the city hooking crooks up and letting them float to their demise. She’d expected a little more backlash after one of the corpses had plunged into an innocent lady, and squashed her to death. And yet, it seemed like parts of Gotham still held love for this murderous crackpot.

While she held no particular sympathy towards the designated victims, Sam would’ve laughed about the hypocrisy of these voices in the crowd. And yet, a part of her felt wary of these sacks of anger boiling underneath the city’s surface. She’d chosen to dive headfirst into a world of corruption, after all: there would be setbacks, and danger, and paladins of justice to come and try to crush crime to its root. And this kind of enemy she could understand. Perhaps she would have to deal with them, one day, and win, or lose, or retreat to count her losses. But there was something unreadable about the angry multitudes, about the way they thought. Something she felt could be manipulated, but one could never fully be in control of. She told herself it’d be best to stay away from their tide, when it could be helped.

 _Trust in one man, if you wish, but never trust in people_. Sam gestured for a coffee refill, a shy smile directed to the waitress. She’d have to meet some technicians that night, to repair damage to one of the projectors, and later a couple artists hoping to find a haven for their craft. Things were starting to take shape within the husk of what would soon be Vespertide, the schedule for its first month growing fuller and more stable day by day. It’d stay a hybrid, with less focus on its cabaret numbers. Vespertide needed a target audience, one that would not restrict itself to only one social class. Something that wouldn’t draw too much of a crowd, but would allow anyone to make use of its unspoken services without drawing suspicion: and what better target than the romantics, the intellectuals, the passionate undercurrent of society? Anyone could claim to belong to those categories. In fact, it would be considered fashionable to hold a sliver of a poet’s soul, in certain social circles, while for others art was more of a need than an accessory. Old, well-loved flicks, musicians, the odd bit of performance art, they all would fit the bill quite well. Plus, she’d developed a taste for that sort of thing, through her sheltered years. Not refined, not yet, but growing more specific as the time passed.

As she mused on these thoughts, Sam spotted something familiar in the features of a man hunkered over the diner’s counter. Greying hair, on the longer side, ruffled under a hat. A long coat, a beard with more white in it than brown, fair eyes. _Couldn’t be more of a detective if he tried_. He had the attire, the stare, the focus. But there was something haggard in him, in the way the coat hung loose from his shoulders, in the way he nursed his drink. Posture slack, uncaring. Amber liquid behind clear glass, some kind of liquor. It took her nearly half a minute of quiet contemplation, of stolen glances in between sips of coffee to figure out who she was looking at. When she did, something leapt in her chest, left her breathless for a moment.

_Blue and red lights from the window, the confused sound of too many footsteps at once. My father’s weight on me, the scissors burning in my stomach, and a figure standing in front of the bed, calling for somebody else, for someone to hurry up, to help, ‘this one’s breathing’…_

“Detective Bullock?” She actually stood up and made her way to him to say those quiet words. Hollering them across the diner would’ve been a little rude. Her voice felt weak, unbolstered by conviction. _Maybe it’s not him_. No, it had to be. It had been a while, and he looked different, but it had to be him.

“I’m off my shift and not answering any questions, ma’am”, the man said, not even raising his eyes from the newspaper. The Gotham Gazette’s evening edition, same as the one that still sat at her side table a few steps away. “‘Sides, those charges were dropped a while ago. Now if you could do me a favour and leave me to my time off, that’d be great, thanks.”

Sam frowned, chin slightly raised in offense at his tone. _He thinks I’m a reporter_. Then, a thought scribbled itself in a corner of her brain. _Charges Dropped charges_. Something calculating in her rose to attention, marked down the topic as something to patiently investigate, at some point. “What? No, I…” She rested one arm on the counter, and bent over it to seek his gaze. “I’m sorry. I thought I recognized you, and for a second I thought you would as well. It’s been ten years though, of course you wouldn’t. I will…” She smiled tight, retreated, readied to take a step back. “It’s okay. I’ll leave you be, have a great night.” _When did you turn into a fucking coward, Sam?_

The man seemed to liven up slightly at her mention of ten years. Lifted his head, suspicious, then turned to regard her. Thoughtful, considering. _He’s changed_. Of course, time had passed, but there was something careworn in the man sitting before her, something not present the one who’d found her bloodied in that bed. “Ten years? Just wait a second, what do you…” He trailed off, turned in his seat to take her in.

 _He won’t recognize me_. She shifted, restless. All things considered, she had to look like a complete stranger in his eyes. She’d been an awkward bird when he’d last seen her, half-grown in spots, lagging in others. But the tight little pigtails had turned into a wild mane of curls, and she’d left behind the pink hoodie she’d hung onto during those first few days of investigations. Now what stood in front of him was a woman, dressed boldly in a black leather jacket and wine coloured bell skirt, an off-shoulder top wrapped around her to dip into a hint of cleavage. _Maybe a bit too bold. Is this fine? I thought I looked fine. Right until right now._ She’d never been one to be self-conscious. _This is ridiculous_. “That’s alright, I don’t expect you to just…”

“Good Lord”, he said. Bullock leaned closer, lowered his voice. Sam had seen certain hallucinating patients regard visiting relatives with the same intensity. “You’re the little Blasco girl. Samantha… no, Samuela…” He cut himself off, shook his head, remembered. “Sam. I called you Sam. Little Sam Blasco. What in the world… why are you even back in Gotham? I thought you were still way south of here.” _Where it’s safe_. He didn’t need to say that bit out loud.

“I was”, she said, relieved. _Perhaps it’s not the best idea to tell a detective how you’re persuaded Don Falcone to let you re-join the flock_. Sam couldn’t suppress a wide smile, though, now that he’d recognized her. “But then I got discharged from the institution. So I figured I might just… come back home, I guess. Oh, and I did change my surname. It’s Baxter now. Can’t really walk around wearing my father’s name. I’m sure you get why.” She cringed, and spotted him doing the same. Her memories of Harvey Bullock were tied to painful ones. _Silver linings to those horrible pictures_. He’d found her. Taken her statement, talked her through the first days at the hospital. Supported her with a kind of fierce recklessness that had made her want to trust him right away. He’d checked on her long after the investigations had been completed, during the trial. The visits, though sparse, had continued after she’d started dividing her time between an orphanage and the mental institution. _He kept forgetting not to swear in front of me_. But then something had happened. She hadn’t heard much, only that his partner had gotten wounded during an investigation. The visits had trickled, then stopped. She didn’t blame him, it was quite the trip to take, and he had other things on his mind. She had other things on her mind. Those visits had been more than she’d ever dare ask for.

In hindsight, those last few times he’d sported fainter ghosts of the same marks he carried now. Bags under eyes, a heaviness to his gaze. Stress, distressed movements, back then. Now a kind of acceptance, stillness in place of movement.

“Forgive me if I take a moment to… Shit, you were a little kid last time I saw you.” He rested his head on one hand, a conflict on his face. Faint joy. Nostalgia. A kind of hardness. Again, something weighty, heavy. _Worry? Guilt? Hard to tell_. “Look, I’m sorry I slipped through the cracks, back then, I… Just sit down, don’t make me look at you just standing there, makes me feel like an asshole.” He sighed, unable to hold onto a thread of conversation for longer than a few seconds. “Where did all that time go”, she heard him mutter to himself.

“Don’t mention it, alright? We’re good”, she said, and briskly grabbed her coffee, made her way to a stool next to him. She felt a little stiff. Like it was hard for her to tell what she should be feeling. All in all, it had to be something pleasant. Awkward, perhaps, but pleasant. Nervous. _Here I am, still on the hook and chatting a detective up_. That could’ve looked bad from the outside. “I didn’t even know if you’d recognize me. It _has_ been a while.” _Good, keep repeating yourself. He definitely won’t notice you have no idea what to say_.

“No need to remind me, I feel like I aged a couple decades just looking at you”, he said, then downed a long sip of his drink. There was a lopsided smirk on his lips. “So. Rumour was that you’d been taken under someone’s wing, back at the time, someone with the money to keep you out of trouble for a while. I hope this doesn’t mean you’re back to take up the old family business?”

It was true. The fact that she was something of a protégé to Don Carmine Falcone had been well known. The rumours had spread just short of reaching the papers, even back then, but they hadn’t stopped his visits. _Will I sound like an asshole if I quote him and say ‘those charges have been dropped’, about my father’s ties to the mob? Nah, just shady, probably._ She raised an eyebrow, both hands on the cup. Steam on her face. “As straight to the point as ever”, she commented, dry. Gave a shrug.  “Let’s just say it’s been ten years, the deck’s been shuffled, and I’m not looking to get gunned down within my first three months back home. Nah, I just… decided I’d start managing this little place. Can’t even remember what it used to be called? At the corner between Old Hollow Avenue and Morrison Street. Well, it’s going to be Vespertide, now. Hoping to make a living for the foreseeable future.”

“The Dangling Doll. Good luck with that one, personally I think it’s a sinkhole. Used to be Morales’s, who happens to be a known associate of Falcone.” Again, that crooked smirk. “Well, _allegedly_.” There was amusement in his voice, but no spite. No venom. _Odd_. She still opted for caution.

“I don’t know. Guess that could be true. Like a good half of the club and business owners in this city, I hear.”

Bullock grinned, and shook his head. “ _Touché_. Well, don’t let me tell you how to live your life, kid. I mean, you have a damn good reason for wanting to be back, so I don’t blame you for taking what you can get to keep yourself alive. With your sister still around the city…”

“Right, yes. Caro.” _Low blow. Felt that_. Sam swallowed barbed discomfort. She’d put it off. Made excuses. The truth was that every time she sat at that desk and looked at the paper she got the shakes. _Why would Caro want a sister who’s trying to get in good with the mob. A sister who killed her father. A sister who still can’t sleep with her head on a pillow – oh, she’d gotten better at that, mind you but torture happens._ “I’ve been… trying to write to her. I guess. Keep rethinking it, looking for better words. I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’s not such a good idea.” _Oh, hear this one, I’ve got a good one! Hey Tiny, guess what your sister’s been up to? Working for the mob, and boiling skin off the severed fingers of her dead doctor._

“You’ll never know unless you try it, kid.” He was brisk, but warm. “I mean, I won’t pretend I know shit about these situations, because who does? But I’m pretty sure you’re required to actually do something before you start regretting it and getting drunk at the thought of it. You don’t get to join the club so easily.”

His tone reminded her of a past Bullock. It brought a smile back to her face, and she nodded. Tried to shake the sadness off. “Why, that’s a prospect.” _The thing is, you’re bad for her. You’re bad for her, and you’re still going to seek her out, because you can’t let that thought rest. Because she’s your sister, and good or bad you feel like you need to be a part of her life_. Failed to shake the sadness off, but kept the smile. “I know, though. I will. I mean, I want to do it. I’m giving myself a deadline, and that’s going to be it.”

“Well if that works for you, do let me know. I have my share of shit I’ve been putting off for God knows how long, and at this point I’m open to suggestions”, he laughed, and turned to smile at her. _Yes, he’s still there_. There still was a hot-blooded detective hiding underneath all of that white in his beard. He just happened to be a lot more exhausted. A little drunker, possibly, if the state of his now empty glass was any indication.

“Speaking of which”, she said, and shot a glance at the diner’s old clock. “I should probably get going. Got a projector-related mess to deal with, but… thanks for the talk. I mean it.” She slid from the stool. One heel clacked on the ground, then the other followed, fainter. Sam paused. She hesitated, scrambled, bit her tongue, then spoke again. _Fuck it, I’m doing it._ “Look, the place is opening on August 20th. You’ll see the posters around the area. Maybe I’ll see you there sometimes? So we can actually catch up instead of just… well, this.” _It’s not like anyone’d be able to tell what that place actually is for. Not without exploring it thoroughly, looking at the blueprints. I made damn sure of that._

“Maybe, yeah”, he said. Observed her, smiled, as if to himself. “Sure, why not. I’ll see you around, kid.”

She gave a little wave and a nod, paid her tab. Turned to leave. All the while, she held onto something steely in herself. Something confident. This reconnection of hers needed not big explanations. In fact, it would’ve been more suspicious for her not to acknowledge him, had he been the one to recognize her. This man had been important to her through some hard times, and she wasn’t trusting him with any secrets. She wasn’t leading him on ground where she was vulnerable.

She wasn’t prey, and she most definitely wasn’t helpless.

* * *

 

It had taken a while to find the strength to close the envelope. Put a definite end to its conception, to the endless overthinking. But now she held it in her hand, finally sealed. Thick, heavy paper. Mechanically tidy writing on its exterior. Addressed to a Mr. and Mrs. Beckwith, holding another envelope within. Two letters.

In the first, she introduced herself to the new family of her once-known sister. Declared her presence in the city, gave a collected, tidy explanation of the reasons for her absence, for her silence. Did not go overboard, not to scare them off, but let moving hints of her tribulations slip as if by accident, just to tickle the mind, to move, to make the ground softer. Put herself in their hands: within, she wrote, would be another letter, addressed to their little girl, _her sister_ , and they would have to judge whether to let her have it. Whether it would cause too much pain, or whether perhaps Carolina had a right to be allowed to choose what to do with it. She’d made sure it would, at the very least, cause some discussion: some uncertainty, if not outright agreement with some of her cautious hints and heart-stirring pleas. Perhaps they’d give the girl the letter without a fuss; or perhaps they’d choose to hide it, or throw it away. Sam only asked that they’d inform her of their choice. A part of her hoped for no real response, not ever; for the attempt to end with nothing. It felt compelled to reserve a chance to fail, a chance to go unheard. A chance, in case this couple who’d raised the little girl for two thirds of her life felt like it’d cause more pain than it was worth it. There was a darker side to this, though, a gnawing thought. A web she’d been unable to outright admit she’d weaved, even to herself.

Had Caro grown to be anything like her older sister, she’d notice the stirring. The hushed conversations. And should something go awry, perhaps she’d find the letter on her own. _Perhaps_. Sam told herself she’d be alright with any outcome, though something in her crawled and shrieked to be heard.

Within the second envelope, a letter was addressed to Carolina Beckwith. Black ink, tidy, small handwriting, its trail sometimes broken by little flourishes, gracing an ‘l’ or a ‘g’. She’d read it way too many times. She wanted to scream at herself about how ridiculous that whole letter was, how pathetic she came off as. How selfish it was to even try to reconnect with her.

But she’d still send it. She’d take that leap. She’d figure it out as she went.

* * *

"To Carolina,

Or Caro. Tiny. I hope you’ll understand me not knowing how to call you, after all this time. We’re sisters, but we’ve spent ten years as strangers. I did not reach out to you, when given a chance to. I’ve always assumed you’d be angry at me, that you wouldn’t want to meet me again, and I made sure to keep it that way. You didn’t reach out to me, either, so I assumed this was the best outcome for you; but if I was wrong, if that caused you any pain, I won’t ask you to forgive me. I just want you to know that I am sorry. I’ve never been good at figuring out when you were about to cry, back then. Games always went a little bit too far. I don’t even know if you remember that, just thought I’d mention it because I think I’m still not very good at figuring out when I’m unwittingly hurting someone. I’m trying to improve.

I’m back in Gotham, and it took me a while to find the guts to contact you. I figured you should know, though. If anything, I figured I should give you the chance to avoid me. I still live around the Upper Eastern area. I’m managing a place between Old Hollow Avenue and Morrison Street. Vespertide. I won’t try and reach out to you if that’s not what you want. Not after this letter. But I’ve realized I’ve made all these assumptions about who you’d be, about what you’d want, and I don’t think that’s fair to you. So I guess what I’m trying to do, right now, is give you a chance to decide.

You were five years old. You couldn’t even write. I’m not sure why it felt so natural to just assume. I guess it just felt more comfortable to think I’d be forgotten, that I wouldn’t be missed where I was going. And, honestly, it’s still more comfortable, it feels easy to think you hate me, that you’ll just throw away this letter. And maybe that’s actually true, after all I didn’t hear from you in all this time. But I guess I want to know for sure that your hand’s holding the wheel. You get to choose where to go. Even if I never hear from you again, I’ll understand. Take your time, make your choice. You know what’s best for you.

I don’t think I need to tell you where I’ve been cooped up this far. Pretty sure it’s common knowledge. I remember you were a smart kid. Even in case nobody told you, I’m sure you’ve dug up all you wanted to know about that time, by now. But yes, I’ve been in an orphanage. Kept being moved between that and a mental institution, then I stayed at the institution for a few years longer. Wasn’t really adoption material. I realize it doesn’t sound too promising, but I guess it was inevitable, after what happened. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had scars of your own.

I’m not sure what else I could write. Not without knowing whether you want to try and reconnect, or even just to yell at me. You’ve got my return address, you’ve got my phone number. I’ll write it at the bottom. If it’s a conversation you want, then I think I’d really like to do this in person. We can also just write, though. Or none of that. Your call.

Whatever you decide, try and have a good life. I’m trying, too. Whatever comes.

Love,

Sam"

* * *

 

Had Caro grown to be anything like her older sister, she’d reach out to her. Sam was pretty certain of that.

It felt slimy, uncomfortable, to be this honest on written paper. It also felt necessary. A part of her desperately hoped they’d never meet again. A part of her wanted nothing more than to see her. _Still torn to pieces, still holding two opposite desires at once. I guess being one didn’t fix me all that well_.


	6. Vespertide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, sorry for the long wait. This chapter took regretfully long to come out due to some unpleasant health and family problems appearing on top of the usual ones. I'm not as happy with it as I might be, but I feel the need to let it go free, so to speak. So here we are! A huge thank you to all of those who were kind enough to leave a comment or kudos. Even though I don't always respond, I see you, and it matters a lot to me to see your reactions. They never fail to keep me focused and motivated, even when things are bad. 
> 
> No real warnings for this chapter.

The place was crowded. Near-packed, but not quite. A good number of the private boxes were occupied. Downstairs, lustrous lilac satin meshed with the darker tones of curtains and décor, while upstairs, deeper purples reigned, unrestrained. Silver glimmered piercing and cruel from details in the furnishing. Black beckoned alongside it, lulled the senses. On the silver screen, a glance between the man and the cabaret dancer would decree his downfall in _three. Two. One. And just like that, the man is doomed_. Sam was ready to bet that the woman by her side held the same kind of power.

Fish Mooney hadn’t been that close to the top of the food chain before Dornan Blasco’s death. Sam tore her eyes off the screen to meet the woman’s again, and found a welcoming smile, revealed by silvery light. The scent of the woman’s lipstick tickled the nose, mixed with the heady notes of lilacs. _Danger_. There was no other way to interpret that cloying scent. The scaled blue and gold dress, iridescent, shamelessly revealing. Long, pointed nails. Jewelry like weapons, like armor, guarding where needed, sharp where wanted. Carefully crafted makeup, rising like war paint on her eyelids.

 _Talons and scales. Sharp smiles, sharp earrings. She’s more dragon than fish_.

Fish Mooney had all but demanded her company in one of the boxes. Behind them, two men awaited, silent: birds from Mooney’s flock, they stood in attendance like a queen’s trail. One, well-dressed, but anonymous, youthful. The other had more flair, sturdy in build. “You ought to be proud of yourself, darling. This place hasn’t seen a better opening night in almost a decade”, purred the woman, bent to be perfectly audible over the flick’s soundtrack. One of her arms wrapped around Sam’s own, the other hand squeezed her shoulder, betrayed the bite of oversharp fingernails. The last decade’s opening nights hadn’t been all that hard to top.

“Thank you, Miss Mooney.” Sam’s eyes prowled over the darkness beneath them. Hints of the crowd peeked out of slivers of light. “It’s a good start”, she convened. _Good job with the small talk, Sam. Great job. That’ll impress the Bosses_.

“Oh, shush with that. It’s Fish, darling, and don’t let me hear another ‘Miss Mooney’ from you. Your mama and I, we used to be good friends. In our own way. Drove each other crazy, but we kept each other on track. Always”, said Mooney, her tone more direct. _More honest?_ It was hard to tell, but the words still brought a ghostly faint smile upon Sam’s lips.

“I think I remember”, she admitted. Memories came unbidden, from areas close to the heart. It made her uncomfortable, reminiscence always did. The visits while father was out late, only joining the women when the sky was dark. Mom’s stern looks, which somehow always gave way to laughter. Fish had been different. Mother still called her Maria, back then. “I’ve seen you from inside, a few times. The two of you, drinking Sazerac in the patio.”

“Oh, Uma did like her cocktails. And you have something of her”, said Mooney, her grip on the younger woman’s shoulder looser. Then, the hand slipped away. A gentle, taloned touch to Sam’s chin forced her to turn to face her. “Let me see you. Yes… you do have her pretty eyes.”

Sam’s frail smile turned to a smirk at those words. She did not like to be touched so freely, but kept her complaints to herself. “Her pretty eyes… And that’s where the resemblance stops, I’m afraid”, she said. _Should give her credit. That’s the nicest way of telling me I look like my father’s daughter_. No venom in her tone. Just tired bitterness.

“Perhaps. The eyes are important, though. They reveal the soul, do they not?” Fish Mooney’s words were accompanied by dramatic, eloquent gestures, rings and nail polish shimmering in the faint, irregular light. “But you have a little hardness to you, too. All stern looks and raised eyebrows… I wonder just what kind of woman has poor Uma’s daughter turned into. So tell me, dear, what are you after?”

 _Why are you doing this? What are you hoping to gain?_ Sam forced herself not to tense. _Are you going to become a threat to someone? I don’t know. Am I going to try and get my filthy throne back, have a go at Morales? No. No, not yet, too stupid, too soon, but I don’t know. I wish I knew._ She had no doubts that a number of others were itching to know the answers to the very same questions. No matter how everyone tried to act like the Family was a well-oiled machine, all working in tandem for the good of all, there were knives raised. Knives pointed at backs, just in case. Knives kept smart under the pillow. “Would it be odd if I said I’m trying to make up for the lost years? Lots of time I spent waiting to be back in the world”, she said, exhaling slow as the hand left her face. “There’s a lot I’ve missed out on, not excluding the pleasure of a job well done. Of success. I like a good challenge, and this is the place for it. Plus…” She gave a smile, made it a point to make it sweet, harmless. “It’s where I belong, after all. The Family. It’s home.” _A home I’ve been forced back into by circumstances. No. No, call it as it is, by some freak who was instructed to plant a spy on Falcone. And the person behind him might come from outside the Family… or inside. Both are likely_.

Fish Mooney gave a delighted chuckle in response. _Hard to read. Hard to read. Comes across as pleased too often to be entirely genuine, though_. People weren’t so easily pleased. Not in that line of business. “Well look at you, darling. All starry eyed and confident, ready to take the city on. I’m almost jealous”, she said, sultry, only to turn stern a moment later. “But I would watch that kind of talk around Salvador. That bit about being ‘where you belong’. He can get terribly nervous, hmmm? Because between the two of us, dear, plenty of people think you belong where he’s sitting more than that slimy old man does. Used to be there was such a thing as a line of succession.”

“Well I did kill my father”, Sam said, blunt. A shrug, eyes once again turned to the screen. “Plenty would argue that cut me off from the line of succession.”

“Some might. Kings and queens have been made the very same way through the centuries”, Mooney said, smooth, siren-like. Sam felt frustrated. Nervous. This was oddly direct, oddly supportive. _Bait. It’s bait_.

“True. Still, I’d much rather be a self-made woman. If I ever rise through the ranks, it’ll be due to my successes, not thanks to a family name I’ve abandoned”, she said, her tone firm at first. Then softened, sweetened. But not entirely. “And I have much to learn.” A raised eyebrow. The hint of a smile. _Hard to read. I can be hard to read, too. I can play that game_.

“Spoken like a true businesswoman. I like that. I do”, Fish trailed off, eyes fixed into hers. “And I like that you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty. I’ve always felt your father’s nose for business wasn’t worth putting up with his behavior.” Sam tensed, this time, exhaled through her nose. The woman went on. “I hope you’ll forgive me for being so blunt, darling, but Dornan was a bastard, and you were right to put him in the ground. Your poor mama deserved better. Plus, I never believed for a second the rumors about the affair.” She scoffed. Sam had to fight the urge not to flinch.

The response came automatic, almost self-defense. “Does it even matter?” Her voice was softer, flatter, eyes narrowed as she stared into the screen. “Personally, I’ve stopped wondering. What matters is that he killed her, and now he’s dead. As for the rest, I won’t pry.” Another smile, this time tighter, not insincere but drained of mirth. “I’m sorry to say I cannot neglect my other guests, but I would very much love to have the chance to speak some more. I hope there’s room for me in your schedule sometimes soon… Fish?” A pause, a soft sigh. “I was so young back then, I almost feel like you know my own mother better than I did.” _Tug at heartstrings. If she has any_.

For once, the woman hesitated for a fraction of a second before speaking. “Of course. Come by any time, you know the place, dear. My home is your home.”

After the pleasantries, after the affectionate goodbye, Sam realized she could breathe more easily outside of the box. She had to grasp at a heavy curtain, inhale deeply, to steady herself. She liked observing better than being observed.

* * *

 

Morales had looked nearly giddy. Nearly. He’d shown appreciation, but he was still wary of her, and after speaking with Mooney the young woman had an even clearer inkling why. She may have been lying about others ‘ _supporting her claim over his_ ’, so to speak, but the idea had to have lingered. Somewhere. Perhaps even within their little family. A calculating part of her thought it’d be quite convenient for him to have been the one to try and install her as a spy; out of the way, one less obstacle between her and the top of the pyramid. But there’d be others to make their claim after him. _I’ve been away for too long, know too little_. For now, those claim would deserve priority.

That manipulative, calculating part of her felt like a secret mutilation. _A scar kept hidden_. She wished she could say it had appeared alongside her conditioning, in the ruins of her shattered mind, but she could remember its birth. Traces of it in her first police interviews, in her court appearances. _No, earlier_. Traces of it in the way, as a preteen, she’d encourage Caro’s childish tendencies towards anything resembling artistic pursuits, towards high hopes and dreams, thinking it’d put her out of the way to her father’s cramped reign. _A shameful scar that tells too much of me_.

But it had served her well, too many times. It was invaluable in spying. It grew details into whole stories. Revealed truths of hidden shameful scars, much like her own. She wanted to hate it, but couldn’t.

Either way, what she had noticed about Morales through the last few weeks did non seem to be indicative of treason. Not to her, at least, though she made sure to relay anything relevant. About him, and about the few others she’d interacted with. Sitting in Don Falcone’s box, much like she had in Fish Mooney’s earlier, she spun her tale, played the dutiful mole. Both kept their eyes to the movie. The tale fed on their time. Each small detail potentially important, potentially game-changing.

They were alone. A show of trust she wasn’t sure how to weigh.

“Aside from that, Morales has a mistress. Some dame who calls herself Angie Louvant. They meet in an empty apartment in the Theatre District. 86 Fowler Ave, third floor. Clockwork-like, every Monday and Thursday evening at eight. Either that, or it’s just a code, and he’s meeting with someone else, but he still does have a mistress. Too much money on flowers and cologne”, Sam said with a shrug. She stole a glance at Falcone, and saw something resembling amusement on his face.

“Is that so?” He asked, though the question had no sting, required no answer. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Miss Baxter. Is there anything more?” He seemed weary, but dignified, as usual. Unsurprising, considering the recent scuffles over the Arkham matter. She’d seen the newspapers. The headlines, the confusion. The tasteless photograph depicting blood-smeared glass, a desperate, trailing handprint where Councilman Ron Jenkins had fallen. _Black, grainy blots of ink_. She’d heard the rumors of tensions with Sal Maroni’s Family.

The papers had had the decency of not presenting visual coverage for Councilman Zeller’s death, but she’d heard things. A burnt down barrel crisp against the riveting background of Arkham. Quite poetic, in its own grisly way, but perhaps too bold for a photo opportunity.

“Well, there is something…” Sam mused, leaned forward to rest her chin on one hand, propped against the soft velvety railing. “Something Miss Mooney said tonight, about what undefined ‘ _people’_ supposedly think. Specifically, about Morales being head to my family. She seemed to suggest someone would rather see me in charge, for the sake of my father’s name.”

“Ah”, he reacted. Not too surprised, actually. _Or if he is, he’s not showing it_. “It’s interesting that she should mention that. How does that make you feel?”

“Assuming it’s true, annoyed.” She said, blunt. Shrugged, head turned slightly to the side. “I’m not fit to lead, yet, blood or not. My experiences through the last ten years are hardly applicable to this kind of… setting, so to speak.” She let the last word trail as the topic swirled in her mind, insistent. “It doesn’t mean I can’t learn, but I wouldn’t go putting ideas in Salvador Morales’s head. I’m sure he has enough worries of his own.”

“Oh, he certainly does”, agreed the Don. _Did that sound ominous? Am I overthinking it?_ “I have to thank you for your attentiveness, Miss Baxter. And for this lovely evening you’ve organized.”

He complimented some of her choices, had plenty of praise for the duet formed by a guitarist and a foreign singer whom she’d hired for the night’s opening. Sam knew he didn’t show up to every club opening within the city. But she was aware of his motives. She tried not to let the displays of trust and gratitude get to her head.

* * *

 

The outflowing mass of paying customers emerged from behind the curtains. She saw smiles. Pleased reactions. She observed and kept to the side, ready to grant a smile whenever etiquette would require it. The crowd gathered at the bar to the left of the stage crumbled piece by piece, its strays joined the flow with satisfied chatter. The gallery was trickling into emptiness, as well. The boxes would take a little longer. Privacy demanded special care. And special refreshments. She observed. Her body busy with mandatory pleasantries. Her mind attuned to the deafening rhythm of her heartbeat. Eyes focused ahead. Attention drawn to the unfocused splash of salmon pink fabric at the left corner of her field of vision. Tittering, fluttering. Hesitating. Waiting for an opening.

The girl had been coming closer. Steadily. Soon, there’d be no staying unseen. The pattern in her movements was uncertain, syncopated. Sam did not show any reaction to it. _Like getting a doe to approach, eat from your hand. Like getting a fly caught in your web_. A stiffening in the side of her mouth almost betrayed a grimace. _I almost wish I still were three of me so I could tell someone else to fuck off for that mental image. But nope, seems like that’s all me. Fuck you, me._

Caro stepped into her focus almost casually. Salmon pink tulle dress on tawny skin, charming but not too flashy. Plump lips. Prominent cheekbones that would serve a wide smile well. Lowered face, eyes darting across the dwindling crowd. Sam’s gaze froze upon the girl’s wide eyes the moment they found her. Dark brown, almost black. The sisters had inherited nearly entirely opposite features from their parents. It was ironic that she should see the eyes of the father she’d killed staring in shock from her sister’s face.

But Sam recovered, inhaled slow. Caro was close enough to call over. “If your plan was to sneak out back, I can show you the way so you’re prepared next time”, Sam said with a tilt of the head towards a curtain behind her. One of the countless back entrances. _Not the important ones_. One people would use to sneak a smoke while the shows went on.

The girl’s deflated expression was worth the little barb. A couple of seconds passed before the answer came. “It wasn’t!” Caro huffed, and looked around in distress. Fought the tide to make a beeline for her sister, head still tilted low, eyes still darting here and there. Voice lowered. “Uhm. Hi. Look, I’m not exactly here on official business”, she said. Reluctant. “Just… scouting.” _Mischief on that last word_.

“Scouting.” Relief spread through her guts. Sam already liked the little girl immensely. “We might want to get out of the way, then. Here”, she said, lifting the heavy purple curtain to reveal a little door. She let the girl barrel outside before her, then followed with a smirk. “Nonchalance’s the closest you’ll ever get to invisible, by the way. Act busy. Like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. That’ll get you further than a VIP pass in most situations. Not much help with neighbors mentioning to your parents they’ve seen their little girl out in the city the other night, though.”

“Yes, that’s a problem for future me”, Caro admitted, and shrugged. Dark brown waves braided into a soft, girlish bun. _I kept braiding it. I liked braiding it. Caro hated it_. Their eyes met again, and tension swelled. “So… here we are. Sister.” The girl tasted the word, and grimaced just slightly. “God, that sounds weird. It’s not just me, is it?”

“Nope. Not just you”, Sam convened, and shrugged. The air around them was damp with rain already spent. Streetlights reflected in pools of white on the wet ground. _Late summer air, already waning_. “Do we stick to Caro and Sam?”

“Yes, please”, said the girl. Quick nods of the head, nervous steps back and forth. Not another word. _Gonna have to do the legwork myself_.

“I take it you found the letters on your own. Trash bin? Locked drawer?” A longer pause. “Fireplace?”

“What? No! I mean, _yes_ , locked drawer, but…” Caro frowned, shook her head. “It’s not the way you think. Don’t judge them so quickly, okay?” She paused. Sam inhaled sharp with a pang of guilt. “They’ve just taken a while talking about it, that’s all. They’re talking about how to do it right. I mean, they’re going to show me, eventually. And knowing them, they’ll make this a whole big official thing and come meet you along with me. But when I noticed they were acting weird, I listened in. And I don’t know, I guess I wanted to do this on my own. I wanted to see what you look like.” Caro’s eyes narrowed. Head tilted, thoughtful. “Wow, I can’t believe the first thing we’re talking about is me defending my parents...”

As the girl trailed off, Sam stiffened. Stunned. _Ashamed_. Her nature had gotten the better of her – she’d connected dots she should’ve left alone. ‘ _My parents’_. It was nothing but good that she felt that way towards them. It spoke well of them. It should’ve made her happy. “Right, that’s not… how I wanted this to start either. I’m sorry. Sorry for making assumptions again.” Sam wanted to step closer, but didn’t. Gave her room. “So, what do you think? Blunder aside. Am I all you thought I’d be?” Overt sarcasm in her words. Surprisingly, it made Caro smile. That almost made her smile, in turn.

“Honestly? I thought you’d look a lot more…” A pause, a thoughtful look. Shame crossing Caro’s eyes before the words were even spoken. “ _Delinquent_.”

“Ah.” It made sense. _Mobster’s daughter, father-killer, grew up in an orphanage, spent more time than I care to calculate in a mental institution. Another alleged mobster paid for all that and more_. _Oh, Caro, you have no idea_. “No, guess I mostly look normal. They socialized me in the hopes I’d actually get adopted at some point, you know”, Sam said. Smiled, a thin bitter curve of her lips, which made the younger girl’s eyes lower in shame. Made her stammer something. “Hey. It’s fine. That was a joke. Well, it wasn’t really, but… it’s fine. I can see why you’d say that.”

The honesty in her voice had the desired effect. Caro breathed more easily. Looked up. Hugged her own frame. _Nervous. But not closed off_. “Uhm, what about me? Do I look… as stuck up and high-brow as you thought I’d be?”

Sam chuckled. The girl was good at defusing tension, after all. “Nah, mostly normal. But you dressed fancy for a scouting mission.”

Caro scoffed. “Well! I guess you’ll have to show me the ropes, Miss Spy.”

“That’s what I’m here for”, she said. Trying very hard to look neutral. Not to acknowledge the nickname. “That, and making wrong assumptions.”

Caro laughed. It felt like a victory. _This is the most stressful evening of my entire life_. It wasn’t, but it felt like it. “It’s a nice place, you know? I don’t know about the movie choice, but the place is nice. And the music before that was good. Passionate! And the little bar to the side is just cute, nothing rowdy, or fancy, or that takes too much room, so I like it.” The young girl said, staring at the building. “I can see this becoming a good spot. The kind of place people might want to crawl into for a different type of evening. Used to have a bawdy reputation earlier.”

 _The Dangling Doll._ Sam nodded. “Heard about that, yes. I’m glad you mostly approve”, she said. Winked. Another smile. Another victory. “I’d give you a tour, but I’m guessing you’re being out a bit too late.”

“Guessed right”, Caro said. There was a long pause. They observed each other, silent. She couldn’t keep her. Shouldn’t keep her. _Little bites. Little by little. Don’t make this weird_.

“I’m not letting you walk all the way back home, not in that pretty dress. Do you have a trusted ride, or would you like me to call you a cab?”

“Cab’s fine, thanks.” Caro was smiling from ear to ear. She looked a lot like their mother, but had something else about her. Something thoughtful. _Almost calculating_. But not a predator’s gaze, not yet. She’d wrap people around her finger in due time, but for now, she showed her age. Sam was oddly grateful for that. She hadn’t been afforded the same luxury. “We’re going to have to do this again, right?”

“The scouting? The secrecy? I don’t know, I feel like your parents would have my head”, Sam said, and felt warm at the girl’s instinctive reaction. Confusion mixed with remonstration. “But sure, we’re meeting again. Maybe by daylight next time. Keep it casual. Coffee, tea, something like that?” She smiled. “No big family events for as long as we can afford to hold those off.”

The girl’s remonstration turned to relief. “Ugh, definitely. Tea sounds perfect.”

 _My sister_. It still felt odd, but in a warm way. A pleasant way. It felt like Vespertide did. “Tea it is.”

* * *

 

Vespertide stood emptied, silent. Sam lingered; she was supposed to send it off to sleep. Instead, she’d chosen to wander, allowed the place to wrap its talons around her, smooth and spent, in a loose, comforting grip. _Not talons, tentacles_. She almost let a chuckle echo in the vast hall beneath her. Somehow, in her mind, it always came down to sea creatures, oceans, strange and warm depths to let herself plunge into. But there was something amiss. _Intruder_. This time she knew even before she heard the sounds.

Sam followed the footsteps, not a glance towards the discreet arrows that pointed to each numbered area. The blueprints impressed into her mind. There was a straggler, somewhere there. Someone the staff had somehow missed, that she had somehow missed. The feeling of a familiar presence was confirmed when she spotted the young man’s lean frame as he hesitated. Considered. Coiled and ready like a spring, like any worthy predator would be.

“Victor”, she acknowledged him. Relished his surprised reaction. Heels muffled by the metal steps’ soft carpeting. “You’re looking a little lost there.” _And out of place. I haven’t seen you all night_. Eyes on him as she descended. One hand dipped across the velvety curtain as she passed, shiny fabric parting like water. These were her hunting grounds. Unlike at home, she felt in control, even in the face of his intrusion.

“Oh, hi there.” He said, almost trailed off. His head turned this way and the other, to try and make sense of his surroundings. “This place could use some ushers. Better signs? A huge map, too.”

A smile twisted her lips. “You wouldn’t need any of that if you had a box ticket. Trust me. If you did, you’d know which arrows to follow and which to ignore.” She closed the distance between them, and warmth bloomed within her chest when he offered his arm. The sensation left her jarred, confused. _Frustrated. Suspicious_. Thoughtful, she accepted the unvoiced offer, one arm nesting into his. She hadn’t been that close to him since the torture. “But you’re lucky I was still inside.” Sam tried to focus on his movements, in order to sense any shifting in his muscles. Just in case he went for his gun, for some reason. “Are we making a habit of this? You, intruding my property for late night visits?”

“Would you like us to?” _Something playful in his tone_. It brought back flashes of memories. A blood-splattered dress. Severed fingers in the fridge. Cold night air. “I was actually in the gallery. Just wanted to sit back until I could catch you alone, then give you my congratulations, but this place is…” He paused, considered. “… interesting?”

“It has personality”, she said. Her lips twisted into a crooked, self-conscious smirk. “You don’t like it?”

“Except for getting lost in the upper floors, I do”, he answered. His body felt relaxed, his movements smooth. He followed her lead without question, without slowing her down. “You have some fun nights coming up next month. I might come by, if I’m not on a job.”

“Really? That… That would be nice, actually. So no business? Just a friendly visit?” She hadn’t intended to widen her eyes, and corrected her mistake almost immediately. _Right, like there’s no other motive. There’s always another motive_.

“I think you’ve had enough business for one evening, haven’t you? No, I just came by to see your grand opening night.” Her mind whirred, incapable of taking that as truth without question. Would it make her happy if he had? _Maybe_. His free hand ran smooth across the chrome-shine of a silver railing, fingertips lingering before leaving it. _Yes_. “You do still feel like you’re…” He paused. Briefly. “My little project? How about that?” His smirk was death-sharp.

“Woah. Your little project.” At first, Sam’s disquiet felt like a mere fraction of what it should’ve been. “That makes me feel like you’re about to reveal I’ve been under your conditioning this entire time.” Lax, unconcerned displeasure in her voice. Casual disregard. But the thought of conditioning had caused her to dig her fingernails deep into her palm. Her free hand tightened into a fist, tighter. Tighter. The sharp, sobering hint of pain. _No longer declawed. I’m free, I’m supposed to be free_.

She felt him move to speak. Hesitate. Think better of it. His arm moved, his hand now placed between her shoulder blades in a steadying gesture. “You’re not. Not anymore.” His voice sounded different, but she couldn’t read it. Didn’t look at his face. _Fuck, am I that much of a spectacle right now?_ She inhaled, hardened. Made herself unprepared for the playful tone that colored his following words. “And I promise I haven’t left any dead bodies under the chairs in the eastern side of the gallery.”

“Alright, no, that is overly specific!” Sam felt aware, painfully awake. The sickening numbness of anxiety jarred away from her body. “Please tell me there’s no actual dead bodies lying around?”

“I haven’t turned your place into a crime scene. Yet. Pinky swear?”

Sam waved away his free hand, finally forced to stop tightening her fist. “No, I trust you, and let me tell you, I’m not liking that ‘ _yet’_.” She arched her eyebrow, glanced at him from below. “Because I don’t know that I’d be able to forgive you if you did, Victor. All of that attention from all the wrong people, all of that cleaning up to do…” Enough exaggerated weariness in her tone to call for laughter. Enough bite to hint at an unspoken threat, but a soft one. She knew she couldn’t successfully intimidate that man. “That’d be way bad for business.”

“Alright, true. Let’s say I won’t, as long as the Boss won’t ask me to”, he said, offering his arm for her to take once again. The exit wasn’t far – they could both see it, now, he could’ve avoided that. She was growing slightly more comfortable with the simple fact that she liked that he didn’t.

Sam sighed. “I guess I’ll take that.” The last few steps they walked in silence. Exhaustion had started to make itself known with its leaden weight. _It’s been a long, long night_. “So, that’s our stop. Time to shut down the place and leave”, she announced, half-turning to glance at the young man by her side. He sighed, stepped back. Arms untangled.

“Looks like it. Do you”, he said, and hesitated. Looked fairly neutral. The pause caught her attention. “Need a ride home?”

“No, I… I have to close up. A bunch of things I need to take care of before I can actually turn off the lights and leave.” She grimaced, stiff. Stretched her arms a little. “And I think I need a little bit of alone time, now. No offense?”

“No, no, none taken”, he answered. Lingered a moment to observe the stage from his vantage point, then the staircase behind them, and she followed his gaze. “Oh. Before I leave. When I say I like it, I don’t mean it’s pretty. Not that it isn’t. But it’s very… you. I think it makes people feel like you’re inviting them to see something intimate. Something they probably won’t understand. Something that’s still intriguing. Fascinating. Does that make sense?”

She paused, considered. Felt oddly bare. “It does, yes.”

The next couple of seconds took her by surprise. She felt him closer. Behind her. His voice above her. Breath tickling the top of her head in the full advantage of his height. “You picked a labyrinth. Made it into even more of a labyrinth than it already was. Is that how you protect your mind, now?”

Sam inhaled. Almost hissed. Scrambled for an answer, realizing she wasn’t certain. Couldn’t dismiss the idea entirely. “Maybe. I think it’s a bit more complicated than that.” Her voice was a little colder now. Defensive. _Predators don’t get cornered inside their own territory_. She fought the urge to dare him to find out.

“I see. I meant what I said. It’s really fascinating.” His tone had shifted to playful again. He’d taken a few steps back. Smiled. Waited, close to the door, which he pointed to with a wide gesture of his arm. “Time to go, then. Thanks for saving me up there.” His tone almost made her chuckle, though her mind was still dazed with the weird turn their conversation had taken. “I’ll see you soon.”

She said goodnight, and closed the door behind him, a stone-hard sound in the empty theatre. Then, Sam spent a few long moments to embrace her confusion. Wrapped her arms around herself. One hand reached to delve into the soft cushioning of a wide sofa in the side of the hall.

A minute later, she went back to work, and emptied her mind of the thousand voices still echoing from a long, eventful opening night.


End file.
